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S. 6. & E. L. ELBERT 













Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1BS1, by 


Fn the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Maiae* 




Printed by Geo. C. Rand & Co., No. 3 Cornhill. 




Miss Ophelia's Experiences and Opinions, Continued, . 5 

Topsr, 32 

Kentuck, 53 


"The Grass withereth — the Flower fadeth," 60 

Henrique, 70 



The Little Evangelist, 89 

Death, ' 96 

"This is the Last of Earth," 114 

Re-union, 124 

The Unprotected, , 144 

The Slave Warehouse, 154 



She Middle Passage, ..... . 168 

Dark Places, ».,....,. 176 

Casst, .188 


The Quadroon's Story, . . . .- . . . 198 

The Tokens, 213 


Emmeline and Cassy, 222 

Liberty, 231 

The Victory, 240 

The Stratagem, 254 

The Martyr, . . . . . . . . . 267 


The Young Master, . . . . . . . 276 


An Authentic Ghost Story, 285 

Results, 294 


The Liberator, . 305 

Concluding Remarks, 310 





MIS9 ohpelia's experiences and opinions, continued. 

''Tom, you needn't get me the horses. I don't want to 
go," she said. 

"Why not, Miss Eva?" 

" These things sink into my heart, Tom," said Eva, — ■ 
"they sink into my heart," she repeated, earnestly. " I 
don't want to go ; " and she turned from Tom, and went into 
the house. 

A few days after, another woman came, in old Prue's 
place, to bring the rusks ; Miss Ophelia was in the kitchen. 

" Lor ! " said Dinah, " what 's got Prue?" 

" Prue is n't coming any more," said the woman, mysteri- 

< c Why not 1 " said Dinah. " She an't dead, is she ? " 

"We doesn't exactly know. She's down cellar," said 
the woman, glancing at Miss Ophelia. 

After Miss Ophelia had taken the rusks, Binah followod 
the woman to the door. 

" What has got Prue, any how ? " she said. 

VOL. II. 1* 

6 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

The "woman seemed desirous, yet reluctant, to speak, and 
answered, in a low, mysterious tone. 

"Well, you mustn't tell nobody. Prue, she got drunk 
agin, — and they had' her down cellar, — and thar they left 
her all day, — and I hearn 'em saying that theses had got 
to her, — and she 's dead ! " 

Dinah held up her hands, and, turning, saw close by her 
side the spirit-like form of Evangeline, her large, mystic 
eyes dilated with horror, and every drop of blood driven from 
her lips and cheeks. 

"Lor bless us! Miss Eva's gwine to faint away! 
What got us all, to let her har such talk ? Her pa '11 be 
rail mad." 

" I shan't faint, Dinah," said the child, firmly ; " and wh^ 
should n't I hear it 1 It an't so much for me to hear it, as 
for poor Prue to suffer it." 

" Lor sakes ! it is n't for sweet, delicate young ladies, like 
you, — these yer stories is n't ; it 's enough to kill 'em ! " 

Eva sighed again, and walked up stairs with a slow and 
melancholy step. 

Miss Ophelia anxiously inquired the woman's story. 
Dinah gave a very garrulous version of it, to whioh Tom 
added the particulars which he had drawn from her that 

"An abominable business, — perfectly horrible!" she ex- 
claimed, as she entered the room where St. Clare lay reading 
his paper. 

" Pray, what iniquity has turned up now? " said he. 

"What now? why, those folks have whipped Prue to 
death ! " said Miss Ophelia, going on, with great strength of 
detail, into the story, and enlarging on its most shocking 


" I thought it would come to that, some time," said St. 
Clare, going on with his paper. 

" Thought so ! — an't you going to do anything about it ? " 
said Miss Ophelia. '"Haven't you got any selectmen, or 
anybody, to interfere and look after such matters? " 

" It 's commonly supposed that the property interest is a 
sufficient guard in these cases. If people choose to ruin their 
own possessions, I don't know what 's to be done. It seems 
the poor creature was a thief and a drunkard ; and so there 
won't be much hope to get up sympathy for her." 

"It is perfectly outrageous, — it is horrid, Augustine ! It 
will certainly bring down vengeance upon you." 

"My dear cousin, I didn't do it, and I can't help it; I 
would, if I could. If low-minded, brutal people will act like 
themselves, what am I to do ? They have absolute control ; 
they are irresponsible despots. There would be no use in 
interfering ; there is no law that amounts to anything prac- 
tically, for such a case. The best we can do is to shut our 
eyes and ears, and let it alone. It 's the only resource left 

"How can you shut your eyes and ears? How can you 
let such things alone? " 

"My dear child, what do you expect? Here is a whole 
class, — debased, uneducated, indolent, provoking, — put, with- 
out any sort of terms or conditions, entirely into the hands of 
such people as the majority in our world are ; people who 
have neither consideration nor self-control, who have n't even 
an enlightened regard to their own interest, — for that 's the 
case with the largest half of mankind. Of course, in a com- 
munity so organized, what can a man of honorable and 
humane feelings do, but shut his eyes all he can. and harden 
his heart ? I can't buy every poor wretch I see. I 


can't turn knight-errant, and undertake to redress every 
individual case of wrong in such a city as this. The most I 
can do is to try and keep out of the way of it." 

St. Clare's fine countenance was for a moment overcast ; 
he looked annoyed, but suddenly calling up a gay smile, he 

" Come, cousin, don't stand there looking like one of the 
Fates ; you 've only seen a peep through the curtain, — a 
specimen of what is going on, the world over, in some shape 
or other. If we are to be prying and spying into all the 
dismals of life, we should have no heart to anything. 'T is 
like looking too close into the details of Dinah's kitchen ; " 
and St. Clare lay back on the sofa, and busied himself with 
his paper. 

Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-work, 
and sat there grim with indignation. She knit and knit, but 
while she mused the fire burned ; at last she broke out — 

"I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so, if you 
can. It 's a perfect abomination for you to defend such a 
system, — that 's my mind ! " 

" What now? " said St. Clare, looking up. " At it again, 

"I say it's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a 
system!" said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth. 

U I defend it, my dear lady? Who ever said I did defend 
it?" said St, Clare. 

" Of course, you defend it, — you all do, — all you South- 
erners. What do you have slaves for, if you don't? ' : 

"Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in 
this world ever does what they don't think is right? Don't 
you, or didn't you ever, do anything that you did not think 
quite right?" 


"If I do, I repent of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia, rat- 
tling her needles with energy. 

"So do I," said St. Clare, peeling his orange; "I'm 
repenting of it all the time." 

" What do you keep on doing it for ? " 

"Didn't you ever keep on doing wrong, after you'd 
repented, my good cousin'?" 

"Well, only when I've been very much tempted," said 
Miss Ophelia. 

"Well, I'm. very much tempted," said St. Clare; "that's 
just my difficulty." 

" But I always resolve I won't, and I try to break off." 

"Well, I have been resolving I won't, off and on, these 
ten years," said St. Clare; "but I haven't, some how, got 
clear. Have you got clear of all your sins, cousin ? " 

" Cousin Augustine," said Miss Ophelia, seriously, and 
laying down her knitting-work, " I suppose I deserve that 
you should reprove my short-comings. • I know all you 
say is true enough ; nobody else feels them more than I 

do ; but it does seem to me, after all, there is some differ- 
ence between me and you. It seems to me I would cut off 
my right hand sooner than keep on, from day to day, doing 
what I thought was wrong. But, then, my conduct is so 
inconsistent with my profession, I don't wonder you reprove 

"0, now, cousin," said Augustine, sitting down on the 
floor, and laying his head back in her lap, " don't take on so 
awfully serious ! You know what a good-for-nothing, saucy 
boy I always was. I love to poke you up, — that 's all, — 
just to see you get earnest. I do think you are desperately, 
distressingly good ; it tires me to death to think of it." 


"But this is a serious subject, my boy, Auguste," said 
Miss Ophelia, laying her hand on his forehead. 

" Dismally so," said he ; " and I well, I never want 

to talk seriously in hot weather. What with mosquitos and 
all, a fellow can't get himself up to any very sublime moral 
flights ; and I believe," said St. Clare, suddenly rousing him- 
self up, ' l there 's a theory, now ! I understand now why 
northern nations are always more virtuous than southern 
ones, — I see into that whole subject." 

"0, Auguste., you are a sad rattle-brain ! " 

' l Am I ? Well, so I am, I suppose ; but for once I will 
be serious, now; but you must hand me that basket of 
oranges ; — you see, you '11 have to ' stay me with flagons 
and comfort me with apples,' if I 'm going to make this 
effort. Now," said Augustine, drawing the basket up, "I'll 
begin : When, in the course of human events, it becomes 
necessary for a fellow to hold two or three dozen of his fellow- 
worms in captivity, a decent . regard to the opinions of society 
requires — " 

"I don't see that you are growing more serious," said 
Miss Ophelia. 

■'Wait, — I'm coming on, — you'll hear. The short of 
the matter is, cousin," said he, his handsome face suddenly 
settling into an earnest and serious expression, l( on this 
abstract question of slavery there can, as I think, be but one 
opinion. Planters, who have money to make by it,— -clergy- 
men, who have planters to please, — politicians, who want to 
rule by it, — may warp and bend language and ethic3 to a 
degree that shall astonish the world at their ingenuity ; they 
can press nature and the Bible, and nobody knows what else, 
into the service ; but, after all, neither they nor the world 
believe in it one particle the more. It comes from the devil, 


that 's the short of it ; — and, to my mind, it 's a pretty 
respectable specimen of what he can do in his own line." 

Miss Ophelia stopped her knitting, and looked surprised ; 
and St. Clare, apparently enjoying her astonishment, went 

" You seem to wonder ; but if you will get me fairly at it, 
I '11 make a clean breast of it. This cursed business, accursed 
of God and man, what is it? Strip it of all its ornament, 
run it down to the root and nucleus of the whole, and what is 
it ? Why, because my brother Quashy is ignorant and weak, 
and I am intelligent and strong, — because I know how, and 
can do it, — therefore, I may steal all he has, keep it, and give 
him only such and so much as suits my fancy. Whatever is 
too hard, too dirty, too disagreeable, for me, I may set Quashy 
to doing. Because I don't like work, Quashy shall work. 
Because the sun burns me, Quashy shall stay in the sun. 
Quashy shall earn the money, and I will spend it. Quashy 
shall lie down in every puddle, that I may walk over dry- 
shod. Quashy shall do my will, and not his, all the days of 
his mortal life, and have such chance of getting to heaven, at 
last, as I find convenient. This I take to be about what 
slavery is. I defy anybody on earth to read our slave- code, 
as it stands in our law-books, and make anything else of it. 
Talk of the abuses of slavery ! Humbug ! The thing 
itself is the essence of all abuse ! And the only reason why 
the land don't sink under it, like Sodom and Gomorrah, is 
because it is used in a way infinitely better than it is. For 
pity's sake, for shame's sake, because we are men born of 
women, and not savage beasts, many of us do not, and dare 
not, — we would scorn to use the full power which our savage 
laws put into our hands. And he who goes the furthest, and 
does the worst, only uses within limits the power that the 
law gives him." 


St. Clare had started up, and, as his manner was when 

excited, was walking, with hurried steps, up and down the 
floor. His fine face, classic as that of a Greek statue, 
seemed actually to burn with the fervor of his feelings. His 
large blue eyes flashed, and he gestured with an unconscious 
eagerness. Miss Ophelia had never seen him in this mood 
before, and she sat perfectly silent. 

"I declare to you," said he, suddenly stopping before his 
cousin "(it's no sort of use to talk or to feel on this sub- 
ject), but I declare to you, there have been times when I 
have thought, if the whole country would sink, and hide all 
this injustice and misery from the light. I would willingly 
sink with it. When I have been travelling up and down on 
our boats, or about on my collecting tours, and reflected that 
every brutal, disgusting, mean, low-lived fellow I met, was 
allowed by our laws to become absolute despot of as many 
men, women and children, as he could cheat, steal, or gamble 
money enough to buy, — when I have seen such men in 
actual ownership of helpless children, of young girls and 
women, — I have been ready to curse my country, to curse 
the human race ! " 

" Augustine ! Augustine ! ' ; said Miss Ophelia, "I'm sure 
you 've said enough. I never, in my life, heard anything like 
this, even at the North." 

" At the North ! " said St. Clare, with a sudden change of 
expression, and resuming something of his habitual careless 
tone. "Pooh! your northern folks are cold-blooded; you 
are cool in everything ! You can't begin to curse up hill 
a ad down as we can, when we get fairly at it." 

" Well, but the question is," said Miss Ophelia. 

" 0, yes, to be sure, the question is, — and a deuce of a 
question it is ! How came you in this state of sin and 


misery ?- Well, I shall answer in the good old words you 
used to teach me, Sundays. I came so by ordinary genera- 
tion. My servants w T ere my father's, and, what is more, my 
mother's ; and now they are mine, they and their increase, 
which bids fair to be a pretty considerable item. My father, 
you know, came first from New England ; and he was just 
such another man as your father, — a regular old Roman,— 
upright, energetic, noble-minded, with an iron will. Your 
father settled down in New England, to rule over rocks and 
stones, and to force an existence out of Nature ; and mine 
settled in Louisiana, to rule over men and women, and force 
existence out of them. My mother," said St. Clare, getting 
up and walking to a picture at the end of the room, and 
gazing upward with a face fervent with veneration, "she was 
divine ! Don't look at me so !" — you know what I mean ! 
She probably was of mortal birth ; but, as far as ever I could 
observe, there was no trace of any human weakness or error 
about her ; and everybody that lives to remember her, 
whether bond or free, servant, acquaintance, relation, all say 
the same. Why, cousin, that mother has been all that has 
stood between me and utter unbelief for years. She was a 
dir^ot embodiment and personification of the New Testament, 
— a living fact, to be accounted for, and to be accounted for 
in no other way than by its truth. 0, mother ! mother !" 
said St. Clare, clasping his hands, in a sort of transport ; and 
then suddenly checking himself, he came back, and seating 
himself on an ottoman, he went on : 

" My brother and I were twins ; and they say, you know, 
that twins ought to resemble each other ; but we were in all 
points a contrast. He had black, fiery eyes, coal-black hair, 
a strong, fine Roman profile, and a rich brown complexion. 
I had blue eyes, golden hair, a Greek outline, and fair com- 

vol. ir. 2 

14 UNCLE tom's cabin; or, 

plexion. He was active and observing, I dreamy and inact- 
ive. He was generous to his friends and equals, but proud, 
dominant; overbearing, to inferiors, and utterly unmerciful to 
whatever set itself up against him. Truthful we both were ; 
he from pride and courage, J from a sort of abstract ideality. 
We loved each other about as boys generally do, — oiF and on ? 
and in general; — he was my father's pet, and I my mother's. 

" There was a morbid sensitiveness and acuteness of feeling 
in me on all possible subjects, of which he and my father 
had no kind of understanding, and with which they could 
have no possible sympathy. But mother did ; and so, when 
I had quarrelled with Alfred, and father looked sternly 
on me, I used to go off to mother's room, and sit by her. 
I remember just how she used to look, with her pale cheeks, 
her deep, soft, serious eyes, her white dress, — she always 
wore white ; and I used to think of her whenever I read 
in Revelations about the saints that were arrayed in fine 
linen, clean and white. She had a great deal of genius of 
one sort and another, particularly in music ; and she used to 
sit at her organ, playing fine old majestic music of the 
Catholic church, and singing with a voice more like an angel 
than a mortal woman; and I • would lay my head dowfl on 
her lap, and cry, and dream, and feel, — oh, immeasurably! 
— things that I had no language to say ! 

" In those days, this matter of slavery had never been 
canvassed as it has now; nobody dreamed of any harm 'in it, 

"My father was a born aristocrat. I think, in some pre- 
existent state, he must have been in the higher circles of 
spirits, and brought all his old court pride along with him ; 
for it was ingrain, bred in the bone, though he was originally 
of poor and not in any way of noble family. My brother 
was begotten in his image. 


a l v Tow, an aristocrat, you know, the world over, has no 
human sympathies, beyond a certain line in society. In Eng- 
land the line is in one place, in Burmah in another, and in 
America in another ; but the aristocrat of all these countries 
never goes over it. What would be hardship and distress and 
injustice in his own class, is a cool matter of course in 
another one. My father's dividing line was that of color. 
Among his equals ■, never was a man more just and generous ; 
but he considered the negro, through all possible gradations 
of color, as an intermediate link between man and animals, 
and graded all his ideas of justice or generosity on this 
hypothesis. I suppose, to be sure, if anybody had asked 
him, plump and fair, whether they had human immortal souls, 
he might have hemmed and hawed, and said yes. But my 
father was not a man much troubled with spiritualism ; 
religious sentiment he had none, beyond a veneration for God, 
as decidedly the head of the upper classes. 

"Well, my father worked some five hundred negroes; he 
was an inflexible, driving, punctilious business man; every- 
thing was to move by system, — to be sustained with unfailing 
accuracy and precision. Now, if you take into account that 
all this was to be worked out by a set of lazy, twaddling, 
shiftless laborers, who had grown up, all their lives, in the 
absence of every possible motive to learn how to do anything 
but l shirk,' as you Yermonters say, and you'll see that there 
might naturally be, on his plantation, a great many things 
that looked horrible and distressing to a sensitive child, like 



Besides all, he had an overseer, — a great, tall, slab 
sided, two-fisted renegade son of Vermont — (begging your 
pardon), — who had gone through a regular apprenticeship in 
hardness and brutality, and taken his degree to be admitted 


to practice. My mother never could endure him, nor I ; but 
he obtained an entire ascendency over my father ; and this 
man was the absolute despot of the estate. 

' ' I was a little fellow then, but I had the same love 'that 
I have now for all kinds of human things, — a kind of passion 
for the study of humanity, come in what shape it would. I 
was found in the cabins and among the field-hands a great 
deal, and,, of course, was a great favorite ; and all scrts of 
complaints and grievances were breathed in my ear ; and I 
told them to mother, and we, between us, formed a sort of 
committee for a redress of grievances. Yfe hindered and 
repressed a great deal of cruelty, and congratulated ourselves 
on doing a vast deal of good, till, as often happens, my zeal 
overacted. Stubbs complained to my father that he couldn't 
manage the hands, and must resign his position. Father was 
a fond, indulgent husband, but a man that never flinched 
from anything that he thought necessary ; and so he put 
down his foot, like a rock, between us and the field-hands. 
He told my mother, in language perfectly respectful and 
deferential, but quite explicit, that over the house-servants 
she should be entire mistress, but that with the field-hands 
he could allow no interference. He revered and respected 
her above all living beings ; but he would have said it all the 
same to the virgin Mary herself, if she had come in the way 
of his system. 

"I used sometimes to hear my mother reasoning cases 
with him, — endeavoring to excite his sympathies. He would 
listen to the most pathetic appeals with the most discouraging 
politeness and equanimity. 'It all resolves -itself into this,' 
he would say ; c must I part with Stubbs, or keep him ? 
Stubbs is the soul of punctuality, honesty, and efficiency, — 
a thorough business hand, and as humane as the general run. 


We can't have perfection; and if I keep him, I must sustain 
his administration as a whole, even if there are, now and then, 
things that are exceptionable. All government includes 
some necessary hardness. General rules will bear hard on 
particular cases.' This last maxim my father seemed to 
consider a settler in most alleged cases of cruelty. After he 
had said that, he commonly drew up his feet on the sofa, like 
a man that has disposed of a business, and betook himself to 
a nap, or the newspaper, as the case might be. 

u The fact is, my father showed the exact sort of talent 
for a statesman. He could have divided Poland as easily as 
an orange, or trod on Ireland as quietly and systematically 
as any man living. At last my mother gave up, in despair. 
It never will be known, till the last account, what noble and 
sensitive natures like hers have felt, cast, utterly helpless, 
into what seems to them an abyss of injustice and cruelty, 
and which seems so to nobody about them. It has been an 
age of long sorrow of such natures, in such a hell-begotten 
sort of world as ours. What remained for her, but to train 
her children in her own views and sentiments 1 Well, after all 
you say about training, children will grow up substantially 
what they are by nature, and only that. From the cradle, 
Alfred was an aristocrat ; and as he grew up, instinctively, 
all his sympathies and all his reasonings were in that line, 
and all mother's exhortations went to the winds. As to me, 
they sunk deep into me. She never contradicted, in form, 
anything that my father said, or seemed directly to differ from 
him; but she impressed, burnt into my very soul, with all 
the force of her deep, earnest nature, an idea of the dignity 
and worth of the meanest human soul. I have looked in 
her face with solemn awe, when she would point up to tliQ 
stars in the evening, and say to. mo. l See there. Aurniste! 

VOL. II. 2* 


the poorest, meanest soul on our place wilE be living, when 
all these stars are gone forever, — will live as long as God 
lives ! ' 

" She had some fine old paintings; one, in particular, of 
Jesus healing a blind man. They were very fine, and used 
to impress me strongly. l See there, Auguste, she would 
say: 'the blind man was a beggar, poor and loathsome ; there- 
fore, he would not heal him afar off! He called him to 
him, and put his hands on him ! Remember this, my boy.' 
If I had lived to grow up under her care, she might have 
stimulated me to I know not what of enthusiasm. I might 
have been a saint, reformer, martyr, — but, alas! alas! I 
went from her when I was only thirteen, and I never saw 
her again ! " 

St. Clare rested his head on his hands, and did not speak 
for some minutes. After a while, lie looked up, and went on : 

"What poor, mean trash this whole business of human 
virtue is ! A mere matter, for the most part, of latitude and 
longitude, and geographical position, acting with natural 
temperament. The greater part is nothing but an accident ! 
Your father, for example, settles in Vermont, in a town 
where all are, in fact, free and equal; becomes a regular 
church member and deacon, and in due time joins an Aboli- 
tion society, and thinks us all little better than heathens. 
Yet he is, for all the world, in constitution and habit, a 
duplicate of my father. I can see it leaking out in fifty 
different ways, — just that same strong, overbearing, dominant 
spirit. You know very well how impossible it is to persuade 
some of the folks in your village that Squire Sinclair does 
not feel above them. The fact is, though he has fallen on 
democratic times, and embraced a democratic theory, he is to 


the heart an aristocrat, as much as my father, who ruled 
over five or six hundred slaves." 

Miss Ophelia felt rather disposed to cavil at this picture, 
and was laying down her knitting to begin, but St. Clare 
stopped her. 

" Now, I know every word you are going to say. I do 
not say they were alike, in fact. One fell into a condition 
where everything acted against the natural tendency, and the 
other where everything acted for it ; and so one turned out 
a pretty wilful, stout, overbearing old democrat, and the 
other a wilful, stout old despot. If both had owned plant- 
ations in Louisiana, they would have been as like as two old 
bullets cast in the same mould." 

" What an undutiful boy you are ! " said Miss Ophelia. 

"I don't mean them any disrespect," said St. Clare. 
"You know reverence is not my forte. But, to go back to 
my history : 

" When father died, he left the whole property to us twin 
boys, to be divided as we should agree. There does not 
breathe on God's earth a nobler-souled, more generous fellow, 
than Alfred, in all that concerns his equals ; and We got on 
admirably with this property question, without a single 
unbrotherly word or feeling. We undertook to work the 
plantation together; and Alfred, whose outward life and 
capabilities had double the strength of mine, became an 
enthusiastic planter, and a wonderfully successful one. 

"" But two years' trial satisfied me that I could not be a 
partner in that matter. To have a great gang of seven 
hundred, whom I could not know personally, or feel any 
individual interest in, bought and driven, housed, fed, worked 
like so many horned cattle, strained up to military precision, 
■ — the question of how little of life's commonest enjoyments 


would keep them in working order being a constantly recur- 
ring problem, — the necessity of drivers and overseers, — the 
ever-necessary whip, first, last, and only argument, — the 
whole thing was insufferably disgusting and loathsome to me ; 
and when I thought of my mother's estimate of one poor 
human soul, it became even frightful ! 

" It 's all nonsense to talk to me about slaves enjoying all 
this ! To this day, I have no patience with the unutterable 
trash thaf some of your patronizing Northerners have made 
up, as in their zeal to apologize for our sins. We all know 
better. Tell me that any man living wants to work all his 
days, from day-dawn till dark, under the constant eye of a 
master, without the power of putting forth one irresponsible 
volition, on the same dreary, monotonous, unchanging toil, 
and all for two pairs of pantaloons and a pair of shoes a year, 
with enough food and shelter to keep him in working order ! 
Any man who thinks that human beings can, as a general 
thing, be made about as comfortable that way as any other, I 
wish he might try it. I'd buy the dog, and work him, with a 
clear conscience ! ' ' 

"I always have supposed," said Miss Ophelia, "that you, 
all of you, approved of these things, and thought them right, 
— according to Scripture." 

" Humbug ! We are not quite reduced to that yet. 
Alfred, who is as determined a despot as ever walked, doea 
not pretend to this kind of defence ; — no, he stands, high and 
haughty, on that good old respectable ground, the right of 
the strongest ; and he says, and I think quite sensibly, that 
the American planter is ' only doing, in another form, what 
the English aristocracy and capitalists are doing by the lower 
classes ; ' that is, I take it, appropriating them, body and 
bone, soul and spirit, to their use and convenience. He 

i , 

defends both, — and I think, at least,' consistently. He says 
that there can be no high civilization without enslavement of 
the masses, either nominal or real. There must, he says, be 
a lower class, given up to physical toil and confined to an 
animal nature; and a higher one thereby acquires leisure and 
wealth for a more expanded intelligence and improvement, and 
becomes the directing soul of the lower. So he reasons, 
because, as I said, he is born an aristocrat ; — so I don't 
believe, because I was born a democrat." 

" How in the world can the two things be compared?" 
said Miss Ophelia. " The English laborer is not sold, traded, 
parted from his family, whipped." 

" He is as much at the will of his employer as if he were 
sold to him. The slave-owner can whip his refractory slave 
to death, — the capitalist can starve him to death. As to 
family security, it is hard to say which is the worst, — to 
have one's children sold, or see them starve to death at 

" But it 's no kind of apology for slavery, to prove that it 
isn't worse than some other bad thing." 

"I didn't give it for one, — nay, I'll say, besides, that 
ours is the more bold and palpable infringement of human 
rights ; actually buying a man up, like a horse, — looking at 
his teeth, cracking his joints, and trying his paces, and then 
paying down for him, — having speculators, breeders, traders, 
and brokers in human bodies and souls, — sets the thing before 
the eyes of the civilized world in a more tangible form, 
though the thing done be, after all, in its nature, the same ; 
that is, appropriating one set of human beings to the use and 
improvement of another, without any regard to their own." 

" I never thought of the matter in this light," said Miss 


" Well, I've travelled in England some, and I've looked 
over a good many documents as to the 'state of their lower 
classes ; and I really think • there is no denying Alfred, when 
he says that his slaves are better off than a large class of the 
population of England. You see, you must not infer, from 
what I have told you, that Alfred is what is called a hard 
master ; for he is n't. He is despotic, and unmerciful to 
insubordination ; he would shoot a fellow down with as little 
remorse as he would shoot a buck, if he opposed him. But, 
in general, he takes a sort of pride in having his slaves 
comfortably fed and accommodated. 

" When I was with him, I insisted that he should do 
something for their instruction ; and, to please me, he did get 
a chaplain, and used to have them catechized Sunday, though, 
I believe, in his heart, that he thought it would do about as 
much good to set a chaplain over his dogs and horses. And the 
fact is, that a mind stupefied and animalized by every bad 
influence from the hour of birth, spending the whole of every 
week-day in unreflecting toil, cannot be done much with by a 
few hours on Sunday. The teachers of Sunday-schools 
among the manufacturing population of England, and among 
plantation-hands in our country, could perhaps testify to the 
same result, there and here. Yet some striking exceptions 
there are among us, from the fact that the negro is naturally 
more impressible to religious sentiment than the white." 

"Well," said Miss Ophelia, "how came you to give up 
your plantation life ? " ' . 

"Well, we jogged on together some time, till Alfred saw 
plainly that I was no planter. He thought it absurd, after 
he had reformed, and altered, and improved everywhere, to 
suit my notions, . that I still remained unsatisfied. The fact 
was, it was, after all, the thing that I hated,— the using 


these men and women, the perpetuation of all thjs ignorance, 
brutality and vice,- 1 - just to make money for me ! 

"Besides, I was ahvays interfering in the details. Being 
myself one of the laziest of mortals, I had altogether too 
much fellow-feeling for the lazy ; and when poor, shif less 
dogs put stones at the bottom of their cotton-baskets to make 
them weigh heavier, or filled their sacks with dirt, with cot- 
ton at the top, it seemed so exactly like what I should do if I 
were they, I could n't and would n't have them flogged for it. 
Well, of course, there was an end of plantation discipline ; and 
Alf and I came to about the same point that I and my 
respected father did, years before. So he told me that I was 
a womanish sentimentalist, and would never do for business 
life ; and advised me to take the bank-stock and the New 
Orleans family mansion, and go to writing poetry, and let 
him manage the plantation. So we parted, and I came 

" But why did n't you free your slaves ? " 

"Well, I wasn't up to that. To hold them as tools for 
money-making, I could not; — have them to help spend 
money, you know, did n't look quite so ugly to me. Some 
of them were old house-servants, to whom I was much 
attached; and the younger ones were children to the old. 
All were well satisfied to be as they were." He paused, and 
walked reflectively up and down the room. 

"There was," said St. Clare, "a time in my life when I 
had plans and hopes of doing something in tills world, more 
than to float and drift. I had vague, indistinct yearnings to 
be a sort of emancipator, — to free my native land from this 
spot and stain. All young men have had such fever-fits, I 
suppose, sometime, — but then — " 


"Why didn't you?" said Miss Ophelia; — "you ought 
not to put your hand to the plough, and look back." 

"0, well, things didn't # go with me as I expected, and I 
got the despair of living that Solomon did. I suppose it was 
a necessary incident to wisdom in us both ; but, some how or 
other, instead of being actor and regenerator in society, I 
became a piece of drift-wood, and have been floating and 
eddying about, ever since. Alfred scolds me, every time we 
meet ; and he has the better of me, I grant, — for he really 
does something ; his life is a logical result of his opinions, 
and mine is a contemptible non sequitur." 

" My dear cousin, can you be satisfied with such a way of 
spending your probation ? " 

"Satisfied! Was I not just telling you I despised it? 
But, then, to come back to this point, — we were on this libera- 
tion business. I don't think my feelings about slavery are 
peculiar. I find many men who, in their hearts, think of it 
just as I do. The land groans under it; and, bad as it is for 
the slave, it is worse, if anything, for the master. It takes 
no spectacles to see that a great class of vicious, improvident, 
degraded people, among us, are an evil to us, as well as to 
themselves. The capitalist and aristocrat of England cannot 
feel that as we do, because they do not mingle with the class 
they degrade as we do. They are in our houses ; they are 
the associates of our children, and they form their minds 
faster than we can ; for they are a race that children always 
will cling to and assimilate with. If Eva, now, was not 
more angel than ordinary, she would be ruined. We might 
as well allow the small-pox to run among them, and think 
our children would not take it, as to let them be uninstructed 
and vicious, and think our children will not be affected by 
that. Yet our laws positively and utterly forbid any efficient 


general educational system, and they do it wisely, too ; for v 
just begin and thoroughly educate one generation, and the 
whole thing would be blown sky»high. If we did not give 
them liberty, they would take it." 

"And what do you think will be the end of this?" said 
Miss Ophelia. 

"I don't know. One thing is certain, — that there is a 
mustering among the masses, the world over ; ani there is a 
dies tree coming on, sooner or later. The same thing is 
working in Europe, in England, and in this country. My 
mother used to tell me of a millennium that was coming, when 
Christ should reign, and all men should be free and happy. 
And she taught me, when I was a boy, to pray, c Thy kingdom 
come.' Sometimes I think all this sighing, and groaning, 
and stirring among the dry bones foretells what she used to 
tell me was coming. But who may abide the day of His 

" Augustine, sometimes I think you are not far from the 
kingdom," said Miss Ophelia, laying down her knitting, and 
looking anxiously at her cousin. 

" Thank you for your good opinion ; but it 's up and down 
with me, — up to heaven's gate in theory, down in earth's 
dust in practice. But there 's the tea-bell, — do let 's go, — 
and don't say, now, I have n't had one downright serious talk, 
for once in my life." 

At table, Marie alluded to the incident of Prue. " I 
suppose you '11 think, cousin," she said, " that we are all 

Ci I think that 's a barbarous thing," said Miss Ophelia, 
" but I don't think you are all barbarians." 

" Well, now," said Marie, " I know it 's impossible to get 
along with some of these creatures. They are so bad they 

VOL. II. 3 


ought not to live. I don't feel a particle of sympathy for 
such cases. If they 'd only behave themselves, it would not 

"But, mamma," said Eva, "the poor creature was un- 
nappy ; that's what made her drink." 

" 0, fiddlestick ! as if that were any excuse I I 'm 
unhappy, very often. I presume," she said, pensively, "that 
I 've had greater trials than ever she had. It 's just because 
they are so bad. There's some of them that you cannot 
break in by any kind of severity. I remember father had a 
man that was so lazy he would run away just to get rid of 
work, and lie round in the swamps, stealing and doing all 
sorts of horrid things. That man was caught and whipped, time 
and again, and it never did him any good ; and the last time 
he crawled off, though he could n't but just go, and died in 
the swamp. There was no sort of reason for it, for father's 
hands were always treated kindly." 

"I broke a fellow in, once," said St. Clare, "that all the 
overseers and masters had tried their hands on in vain." 

"You!" said Marie; "well, I'd be glad to know when 
you ever did anything of the sort." 

"Well, he was a powerful, gigantic fellow, — a native-born 
African; and he appeared to have the rude instinct of freedom 
in him to an uncommon degree. He was a regular African 
lion. They called him Scipio. Nobody could do anything 
with him ; and he was sold round from overseer to overseer, 
till at last Alfred bought him, because he thought he could 
manage him. Well, one day he knocked down the overseer, 
and was fairly off into the swamps. I was on a visit to Alf 's 
plantation, for it was after we had dissolved partnership. 
Alfred was greatly exasperated ; but I told -him that it was 
his own fault, and laid him any wager that I could break the 


man ; and finally it was agreed that, if I caught him, I should 
have him to experiment on. So they mustered out a party 
of some six or seven, with guns and dogs, for the hunt. 
People, you know, can get up just as much enthusiasm in 
hunting a man as a deer, if it is only customary ; in fact, I 
got a little excited myself, though I had only put in as a 
*K>rt of mediator, in case he was caught. 

"Well, the dogs bayed and howled, and we rode and 
scampered, and finally we started him. He ran and bounded 
like a buck, and kept us well in the rear for some time ; but 
at last he got caught in an impenetrable thicket of cane ; then 
he turned to bay, and I tell you he fought the dogs right gal- 
lantly. He dashed them to right and left, and actually killed 
three of them with only his naked fists, when a shot from a 
gun brought him down, and he fell, wounded and bleeding, 
almost at my feet. The poor fellow looked up at me with 
manhood and despair both in his eye. I kept back the dogs 
and the party, as they came pressing up, and claimed him as 
my prisoner. It was all I could do to keep them from shoot- 
ing him, in the flush of success ; but I persisted in my bar- 
gain, and Alfred sold him to me. Well, I took him in hand, 
and in one fortnight I had him tamed down as submissive 
and tractable as heart could desire." 

tl What in the world did you do to him ? " said Marie. 

" Well, it was quite a simple process. I took him to my 
own room, had a good bed made for him, dressed his wounds, 
and tended him myself, until he got fairly on his feet again. 
And, in process of time, I had free papers made out for him, 
and told him he might go where he liked.'- 5 

" And did he go ?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" No. The foolish fellow tore the paper in two, and abso- 
lutely refused to leave me. I never had a braver, better 

28 UNCLE tom's cabin; or, 

fellow, — trusty and true as steel. He embraced Christianity 
afterwards, and became as gentle as a child. He used to 
oversee my place on the lake, and did it capitally, too. I 
lost him the first cholera season. In fact, he laid down his life 
for me. For I was sick, almost to death; and when, through 
the panic, everybody else fled, Scipio worked for me like a 
giant and actually brought me back into life again. But, 
poor fellow ! he was taken, right after, and there was no 
saving him. I never felt anybody's loss more." 

Eva had come gradually nearer and nearer to her father, 
as he told the story, — her small lips apart, her eyes wide and 
earnest with absorbing interest. 

As he finished, she suddenly threw her arms around his 
neck, burst into tears, and sobbed convulsively. 

"Eva, dear child! what is the matter?" said St. Clare, 
as the child's small frame trembled and shook with the 
violence of her feelings. "This child," he added, "ought 
not to hear any of this kind of thing, — she 's nervous." 

"No, papa, I'm not nervous," said Eva, controlling her- 
self, suddenly, with a strength of resolution singular in such 
a child. "I'm not nervous, but these things sink into my 

" What do you mean, Eva ? " 

" I can't tell you, papa. I think a great many thoughts. 
Perhaps some day I shall tell you." 

" Well, think away, dear, — only don't cry and worry youi 
papa," said St. Clare. " Look here, — see what a beautifu) 
peach I have got for you ! " 

Eva took it, and smiled, though there was still a nervous 
twitching about the corners of her mouth. 

" Come, look at the gold-fish," said St. Clare, taking her 
hand and stepping on to the verandah. A few moments, and 


merry laughs were heard through the silken curtains, as 
Eva and St. Clare were pelting each other with roses, and 
chasing each other among the alleys of the court. 

There is danger that cnr humble friend Tom be neglected 
amid the adventures of the higher born ; but, if our readers 
will accompany us up to a little loft over the stable, they 
may, perhaps, learn a little of his affairs. It was a decent 
room, containing a bed, a chair, and a small, rough stand, 
where lay Tom's Bible and hymn-book ; and where he sits, at 
present, with his slate before him, intent on something that 
seems to cost him a great deal of anxious thought. 

The fact was, that Tom's home-yearnings had become so 
strong, that he had begged a sheet of writing-paper of Eva, 
and, mustering up all his small stock of literary attainment 
acquired by Mas'r George's instructions, he conceived the 
bold idea of writing a letter ; and he was busy now, on his 
slate, getting out his first draft. Tom was in a good deal of 
trouble, for the forms of some of the letters he had forgotten 
entirely ; and of what he did remember, he did not know 
exactly which to use. And while he was working, and 
breathing very hard, in his earnestness, Eva alighted, like a 
bird, on the round of his chair behind him, and peeped over 
his shoulder. 

" 0, Uncle Tom ! what funny things you are making, 
there ! " 

"I'm trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva, 
and my little chil'en," said Tom, drawing the back of his 
hand over his eyes ; " but, some how, I 'm feard I shan't make 
it out." 

"I wish I could help yozi. Tom! I've learnt to writo 

VOL. II. 3* 

30 UNCLE tom's cabin; or, 

some. Last year I could make all the letters, but I 'm afraid 
I've forgotten." 

So Eva put her little golden head close to his, and the 
two commenced a grave and anxious discussion, each one 
equally earnest, and about equally ignorant ; and, with a 
deal of consulting and advising over every word, the com- 
position began, as they both felt very sanguine, to look quite 
like writing. 

" Yes, Uncle Tom, it really begins to look beautiful/' said 
Eva, gazing delightedly on it. " How pleased your wife '11 
be, and the poor little children ! 0, it 's a shame you ever 
had to go away from them ! I mean to ask papa to let you 
go back, some time." 

1 ' Missis said that she would send down money for me, as 
soon as they could get it together," said Tom. "I'm 'spectin' 
she will. Young Mas'r George, he said he 'd come for me ; 
and he gave me this yer dollar as a sign ; " and Tom drew 
from under his clothes the precious dollar. 

"0, he'll certainly come, then!" said Eva. "I'm so 

glad ! " 

" And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let 'em 
know whar I was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off, — 
cause she felt so drefful, poor soul ! " 

" I say, Tom ! " said St. Clare's voice, coming in the dooi 
at this moment. 

Tom and Eva both started. 

"What's here?" said St. Clare, coming up and looking 
at the slate. 

"0, it's Tom's letter. I'm helping him to write it," 
said Eva ; " is n't it nice ? " 

"I wouldn't discourage either of you," said St. Clare, 
" but I rather think, Torn,* you 'd better get me to write 


your letter for you. I '11 do it, when I come home from my 

"It's very important he should write," said Eva, "be- 
cause his mistress is going to send down money to redeem 
him, you know, papa ; he told me they told him so." 

St. Clare thought, in his heart, that this was probably only 
one of those things which good-natured owners say to their 
servants, to alleviate their horror of being sold, without any 
intention of fulfilling the expectation thus excited. But he 
did not make any audible comment upon it, — only ordered 
Tom to get the horses out for a ride. 

Tom's letter was written in due form for him that evening, 
and safely lodged in the post-office. 

Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labors in the house- 
keeping line. It was universally agreed, among all the house- 
hold, from Dinah down to the youngest urchin, that Miss 
Ophelia was decidedly " curis," — a term by which a southern 
servant implies that his or her betters don't exactly suit 

The higher circle in the family — to wit, Adolph, Jane 
and Rosa — agreed that she was no lady ; ladies never kept 
working about as she did : — that she had no air at all ; and 
they were surprised that she should be any relation of the 
St. Clares. Even Marie declared that it was absolutely 
fatiguing to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in fact, 
Miss Ophelia's industry was so incessant as to lay some 
foundation for the complaint. She sewed and stitched away, 
from daylight till dark, with the energy of one who is pressed 
on by some immediate urgency; and then, when the light 
faded, and the work was folded away, with one turn out came 
the ever-ready knitting-w T ork, and there she was again, going 
on as briskly as ever. It really was a labor to see her. 




One morning, while Miss Ophelia was busy in some of her 
domestic cares, St. Clare's voice was heard, calling her at the 
foot of the stairs. 

" Come down here, Cousin; I've something to show you." 

"What is it?" said Miss Ophelia, coming down, with her 
sewing in her hand. 

"I've made a purchase for your department, — see here," 
said St. Clare ; and, with the word, he pulled along a little 
negro girl, about eight or nine years of age. 

She was one of the blackest of her race ; and her round, 
shining eyes, glittering as glass beads, moved with quick and 
restless glances over everything in the room. Her mouth, 
half open with astonishment at the wonders of the new Mas'r's 
parlor, displayed a white and brilliant set of teeth. Her 
woolly hair was braided in sundry little tails, which stuck out 
in every direction. The expression of her face was an odd 
mixture of shrewdness and cunning, over which was oddly 
drawn, like a kind of veil, an expression of the most doleful 
gravity and solemnity. She was dressed in a single filthy, 
ragged garment, made of bagging; and stood with her hanls 
demurely folded before her. Altogether, there was some- 
thing odd and goblin-like about her appearance, — something, 
as Miss Ophelia afterwards said, "so heathenish," as to in- 
spire that good lady with utter dismay ; and, turning to St. 
Clare, she said, 


"Augustine, what in the world have you brought that 
thing here for?" 

" For you to educate, to be sure, and train in the way she 
should go. I thought she was rather a funny specimen in 
the Jim Crow line. Here, Topsy," he added, giving a 
whistle, as a man would to call the attention of a dog, " give 
us a song, now, and show us some of your dancing." 

The black, glassy eyes glittered with a kind of wicked droll- 
ery, and the thing struck up, in a clear shrill voice, an odd 
negro melody, to which she kept time with her hands and 
feet, spinning round, clapping her hands, knocking her knees 
together, in a wild, fantastic sort of time, and producing in 
her throat all those odd guttural sounds which distinguish the 
native music of her race ; and finally, turning a summerset or 
two, and giving a prolonged closing note, as odd and un- 
earthly as that of a steam- whistle, she came suddenly down 
on the carpet, and stood with her hands folded, and a most 
sanctimonious expression of meekness and solemnity over her 
face, only broken by the cunning glances which she shot 
askance from the corners of her eyes. 

Miss Ophelia stood silent, perfectly paralyzed with amaze- 

St. Ckre, like a mischievous fellow as he was, appeared to 
enjoy her astonishment ; and, addressing the child again, said, 

"Topsy, this is your new mistress. I'm going to give 
you up to her; see now that you behave yourself." 

"Yes, Mas'r," said Topsy, with sanctimonious gravity, her 
wicked eyes twinkling as she spoke. 

"You're going to be good, Topsy, you understand," said 
St. Clare. 

" yes, Mas'r," said Topsy, with another twinkle, her 
hands still devoutly folded. 

34 UNCLE tom's cabin: or 

" Now, Augustine, what upon earth is this for ? " said Misa 
Ophelia. " Your house is so full of these little plagues, now, 
that a body can't set down their foot without treading on 'em. 
I get up in the morning, and find one asleep behind the door, 
and see one black head poking out from under the table, one 
lying on the door-mat, — and they are mopping and mowing 
and grinning between all the railings, and tumbling over the 
kitchen floor ! What on earth did you want to bring this one 

' ' For you to educate — did n ' 1 1 tell you ? You 're always 
preaching about educating. I thought I would make you a 
present of a fresh-caught specimen, and let you try your 
hand on her, and bring her up in the way she should go." 

" I don't want her, I am sure ; — I have more to do with 
'em now than I want to." 

' 'That's you Christians, all over! — you'll get up a soci- 
ety, and get some poor missionary to spend all his days among 
just such heathen. But let me see one of you that would 
take one into your house with you, and take the labor of 
their conversion on yourselves I No ; when it comes to that, 
they are dirty and disagreeable, and it 's too much care, and 
so on." 

"Augustine, you know I didn't think of it in that light," 
said Miss Ophelia, evidently softening. "Well, it might be 
a real missionary work," said she, looking rather more favor- 
ably on the child, 

St. Clare had touched the right string. Miss Ophelia's 
conscientiousness was ever on the alert. "But," she added, 
" I really didn't see the need of buying this one ; — there are 
enough now, in your house, to take all my time and skill." 

"Well, then, Cousin," said St. Clare, drawing her aside, 
C I ought to beg your pardon for my good-for-nothing 


speeches. You are so good, after all, that there 's no sense 
in them. Why, the fact is, this concern belonged to a couple 
of drunken creatures that keep a low restaurant that I have 
to pass by every day, and I was tired of hearing her scream- 
ing, and them beating and swearing at her. She looked 
bright and funny, too, as if something might be made of her ; 
- so I bought her, and I '11 give her to you. Try, now, and 
give her a good orthodox New England bringing up, and see 
what it'll make of her. You know I haven't any gift that 
way; but I'd like you to try." 

"Well, I '11 do what I can," said Miss Ophelia; and she 
approached her new subject very much as a person might be 
supposed to approach a black spider, supposing them to have 
benevolent designs toward it. 

"She 's dreadfully dirty, and half naked," she said. 

" Well, take her down stairs, and make some of them clean 
and clothe her up." 

Miss Ophelia carried her to the kitchen regions. 

"Don't see what Mas'r St. Clare wants of 'nother nig- 
ger ! " said Dinah, surveying the new arrival with no friendly 
air. " Won't have her round under my feet, i" know ! " 

"Pah!" said Eosa and Jane, with supreme disgust; "let 
her keep out of our way ! What in the world Mas'r 
wanted another of these low niggers for, I can't see ! " 

"You go long! No more nigger dan you be, Miss Rosa," 
said Dinah, who felt this last remark a reflection on herself. 
"You seem to tink yourself white folks. You an't nerry 
one, black nor white. I'd like to be one or turrer." 

Miss Ophelia saw that there was nobody in the camp that 
would undertake to oversee the cleansing and dressing of the 
new arrival ; and so she was forced to do it herself, with some 
very ungracious and reluctant assistance from Jane. 


It is not for ears polite to hear the particulars of the first 
toilet of a neglected, abused child. In fact, in this world, 
multitudes must live and die in a state that it would be too 
great a shock to the nerves of their fellow-mortals even to 
hear described. Miss Ophelia had a good, strong, practical 
deal of resolution ; and she went through all the disgusting 
details with heroic thoroughness, though, it must be confessed, 
with no very gracious air, — for endurance was the utmost to 
which her principles could bring her. When she saw, on the 
back and shoulders of the child, great welts and calloused 
spots, ineffaceable marks of the system under which she had 
grown up thus far, her heart became pitiful within her. 

"See there!" said Jane, pointing to the marks, "don't 
that show she's a limb? We'll have fine works with her, 
I reckon. I hate these nigger young uns ! so disgusting ! I 
wonder that Mas'r would buy her ! " 

The " young un" alluded to heard all these comments with 
the subdued and doleful air which seemed habitual to her, 
only scanning, with a keen and furtive glance of her flickering 
eyes, the ornaments which Jane wore in her ears. When 
arrayed at last in a suit of decent and whole clothing, her hair 
cropped short to her head, Miss Ophelia, with some satisfac- 
tion, said she looked more Christian-like than she did, and in 
her own mind began to mature some plans for her instruction. 

Sitting down before her, she began to question her. 

" How old are you, Topsy ? " 

" Dun no, Missis," said the image, with a grin that showed 
all her teeth. 

"Don't know how old you are? Didn't anybody ever 
tell you? Who was your mother ? " 

" Never had none ! " said the child, with another grin. 


" Never had any mother? What do you mean? Where 
were you born? " 

"Never was born!" persisted Topsy, with another grin, 
that looked so goblin-like, that, if Miss Ophelia had been at 
all nervous, she might have fancied that she had got hold of 
some sooty gnome from the land of Diablerie; but Miss 
Ophelia was not nervous, but plain and business-like, and sha 
said, with some sternness, 

"You mustn't answer me in that way, child; I'm not 
playing with you. Tell me where you were born, and who 
your father and mother were." 

"Never was born," reiterated the creature, more emphati- 
cally ; " never had no father nor mother, nor nothin'. I was 
raised by a speculator, with lots of others. Old Aunt Sue 
used to take car on us." 

The child was evidently sincere ; and Jane, breaking into a 
short laugh, said, 

'■Laws, Missis, there's heaps of 'em. Speculators buys 
'em up cheap, when they 's little, and gets 'em raised for 

"How long have you lived with your master and mis- 

" Dun no, Missis." 

"Is it a year, or more, or less ? " 

"'Dun no, Missis." 

"Laws, Missis, those low negroes, — they can't tell ; they 
don't know anything about time," said Jane; "they don't 
know what a year is ; they don't know their own ages." 

" Have you ever heard anything about God, Topsy?" 

The child looked bewildered, but grinned as usual. 

" Do you know who made you? " 

VOL. II. 4 


"Nobody, as I knows on,-' said the child, with a short 

The idea appeared to amuse her considerably; for her eyes 
twinkled, and she added, 

" I spect I grow'd. Don't think nobody never made me." 

"Do you know how to sew?" said Miss Ophelia, who 
thought she would turn her inquiries to something more tan- 

".No, Missis." 

"What can you do? — what did you do for your master and 

" Fetch water, and wash dishes, and rub knives, and wait 
on folks." 

" Were they good to you ? " 

" Spect they was," said the child, scanning Miss Ophelia 

Miss Ophelia rose from this encouraging colloquy; St. Clare 
was leaning over the back of her chair. • 

" You find virgin soil there, Cousin ; put in your own ideas, 
— you won't find many to pull up." 

Miss Ophelia's ideas of education, like all her other ideas, 
were very set and definite ; and of the kind that prevailed in 
New England a century ago, and which are still preserved in 
some very retired and unsophisticated parts, where there are 
no railroads. As nearly as could be expressed, they could be 
comprised in very few words : to teach them to mind when 
they were spoken to ; to teach them the catechism, sewing, 
and reading; and to whip them if they told lies. And 
though, of course, in the flood of light that is now poured 
on education, these are left far away in the rear, yet it k 
an undisputed fact that our grandmothers raised some toler- 
ably fair men and women under this regime, as many of 


us can remember and testify. At all events, Miss Ophelia 
knew of nothing else to do; and, therefore, applied her 
mind to her heathen with the best diligence she could com- 

The child was announced and considered in the family as 
Miss Ophelia's girl ; and, as she was looked upon with no gra- 
cious eye in the kitchen, Miss Ophelia resolved to confine her 
sphere of operation and instruction chiefly to he? own cham- 
ber. With a self-sacrifice which some of our readers will 
appreciate, she resolved, instead of comfortably making her 
own bed, sweeping and dusting her own chamber, — which she 
had hitherto done, in utter scorn of all offers of help from the 
chambermaid of the establishment, — to condemn herself to the 
martyrdom of instructing Topsy to perform these operations, 
— ah, woe the day ! Did any of our readers ever do the same, 
they will appreciate the amount of her self-sacrifice. 

Miss Ophelia began with Topsy by taking her into her 
cha#iber, the first morning, and solemnly commencing a 
course of instruction in the art and mystery of bed-making. 

Behold, then, Topsy, washed and shorn of all the little 
braided tails wherein her heart had delighted, arrayed in a 
clean gown, with well-starched apron, standing reverently 
before Miss Ophelia, with an expression of solemnity well 
befitting a funeral. 

" Now, Topsy, I 'm going to show you just how my bed is 
to be made. I am very particular about my bed. You must 
learn exactly how to do it." 

"Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with a deep sigh, and a face 
of woful earnestness. 

" Now, Topsy, look here ; — this is the hem of the sheet,— 
this is the right side of the sheet, and this is the wrong ; — ■ 
will you remember ? ' ' 



Yes, ma'am," says Topsy, with another sigh. 
Well, now, the under sheet you must bring over the 
bolster, — so, — and tuck it clear down under the mattress 
nice and smooth, — so,< — do you see? " 

" Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, with profound attention. 

"But the upper sheet," said Miss Ophelia, "must be 
brought down in this way, and tucked under firm and smooth 
at the foot, — so, — the narrow hem at the foot." 

"Yes, ma'am," said Topsy, as before; — but we will add, 
what Miss Ophelia did not see, that, during the time when 
the good lady's back was turned, in the zeal of her manipula- 
tions, the young disciple had contrived to snatch a pair of 
gloves and a ribbon, which she had adroitly slipped into her 
sleeves, and stood with her hands dutifully folded, as before. 

"Now, Topsy, let's see you do this," said Miss Ophelia, 
pulling off the clothes, and seating herself. 

Topsy, with great gravity and adroitness, went through the 
exercise completely to Miss Ophelia's satisfaction ; smoothing 
the sheets, patting out every wrinkle, and exhibiting, through 
the whole process, a gravity and seriousness with which her 
instructress was greatly edified. By an unlucky slip, how- 
ever, a fluttering fragment of the ribbon hung out of one of 
her sleeves, just as she was finishing, and caught Miss Ophe- 
lia's attention. Instantly she pounced upon it. "What's 
this ? You naughty, wicked child, — you 've been stealing 
this ! " 

The ribbon was pulled out of Topsy' s own sleeve, yet was 
she not in the least disconcerted ; she only looked at it with 
an air of the most surprised and unconscious innocence. 

"Laws! why, that ar 's Miss Feely's ribbon, an't it? 
How could it a got caught in my sleeve ?" 


' c Topsy, you naughty girl, don't you tell me a lie, — you 
stole that ribbon ! " 

" Missis, I declar for 't, I didn't; — never seed it till dis 
yer blessed minnit." 

" Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, "don't you know it's 
wicked to tell lies?" 

" I never tells no lies, Miss Feely," said Topsy, with 
virtuous gravity; "it's jist the truth I've been a tellin 
now, and an't nothin else." 

" Topsy, I shall have to whip you, if you tell lies so." 

" Laws, Missis, if you 's to whip all day, couldn't say no 
other w*ay," said Topsy, beginning to blubber. " I never 
seed dat ar, — it must a got caught in my sleeve. Miss 
Feely must have left it on the bed, and it got caught in the 
clothes, and so got in my sleeve." 

Miss Ophelia was so indignant at the barefaced lie, that 
she caught the child and shook her. 

" Don't you tell me that again ! " 

The shake brought the gloves on to the floor, from the 
other sleeve. 

" There, you ! " said Miss Ophelia, " will you tell me now, 
you did n't steal the ribbon ? " 

Topsy now confessed to the gloves, but still persisted in 
denying the ribbon. 

" Now, Topsy," said Miss Ophelia, " if you '11 confess all 
about it, I won't whip you this time." Thus adjured, Topsy 
confessed to the ribbon and gloves, with woful protestations 
of penitence. 

1 Well, now, tell me. I know you must have taken other 
things since you have been in the house, for I let you run 
about all day yesterday. Now, tell me if you took anything, 
and I shan't whip you." 

vol. n 4* 


" Laws, Missis! I took Miss Eva's red thing she wars on 
her neck." 

" You did, you naughty child ! — "Well, what, else?" 

" I took Rosa's yer-rings, — them red ones." 

u Go bring them to me this minute, both of 'em." 

" Laws, Missis ! I can't, — they 's burnt up ! " 

" Burnt up ! — what a story ! Go get 'em, or I '11 whip 

Topsy, with loud protestations, and tears, and groans, 
declared that she could not. "They's burnt up, — they 

" What did you burn 'em up for?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" Cause I 's wicked, — I is. I 's mighty wicked, any how. 
I can't help it." 

Just at this moment, Eva came innocently into the room, 
with the identical coral necklace on her neck. 

"Why, Eva, where did you -get your necklace?" said 
Miss Ophelia. 

" Get it ? Why, I 've had it on all day," said Eva. 

" Did you have it on yesterday? " 

" Yes ; and what is funny, Aunty, I had it on all night. 
I forgot to take it off when I went to bed." 

Miss Ophelia looked perfectly bewildered ; the more so, as 
Rosa, at that instant, came into the room, with a basket of 
newly-ironed linen poised on her head, and the coral ear- 
drops shaking in her ears ! 

" I 'm sure I can't tell anything what to do with such a 
child !" she said, in despair. " What in the world did you 
tell me you took those things for, Topsy ?" 

" Why, Missis said I must 'fess; and I couldn't think of 
nothin else to 'fess," said Topsy, rubbing her eyes. 

" But, of course, I did n't want you to confess things you 


did n't do," said Miss Ophelia ; " that 's telling a lie, just as 
much as the other." 

" Laws, now, is it?" said Topsy, with an air of innocent 

" La, there an't any such thing as truth in that limb," 
said Rosa, looking indignantly at Topsy. " If I was Mas'r 
St. Clare, I 'd whip her till the blood run. I would, — I 'd 
let her catch it ! " • 

" No, no, Rosa," said Eva, with an air of command, which 
the child could assume at times; "you mustn't talk so, 
Rosa. I can't bear to hear it." 

" La sakes! Miss Eva, you 's so good, you don't know 
nothing how to get along with niggers. There 's no way but 
to cut 'em well up, I tell ye." 

" Rosa ! " said Eva, " hush ! Don't you say another word 
of that sort ! " and the eye of the child flashed, and her cheek 
deepened its color. 

Rosa was cowed in a moment. 

" Miss Eva has got the St. Clare blood in her, that 's 
plain. She can speak, for all the world, just like her papa," 
she said, as she passed out of the room. 

Eva stood looking at Topsy. 

There stood the two children, representatives of the two 
extremes of society. The fair, high-bred child, with her 
golden head, her deep eyes, her spiritual, noble brow, 
and prince-like movements; and her black, keen, subtle, 
cringing, yet acute neighbor. They stood the representatives 
of their races. The Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, com- 
mand, education, physical and moral eminence ; the Afric, 
born of ages of oppression, submission, ignorance, toil, and 
vice ! 

Something, perhaps, of such thoughts struggled through 

44 UNCLE TOM'S cabin : OR, 

Eva's mind. But a child's thoughts are rather dim, unde- 
fined instincts ; and in Eva's' noble nature many such were 
yearning and working, for which she had no power of utter- 
ance. When Miss Ophelia expatiated on Topsy's naughty, 
wicked conduct, the child looked perplexed and sorrowful, but 
said, sweetly, 

" Poor Topsy, why need you steal 1 You 're going to be 
taken good care of, now. I 'm*sure I 'd rather give you any- 
thing of mine, than have you steal it." 

It was the first word of kindness the child had ever heard 
in her life ; and the sweet tone and manner struck strangely 
on the wild, rude heart, and a sparkle of something like a 
tear shone in the keen, round, glittering eye ; but it was fol- 
lowed by the short laugh and habitual grin. No ! the ear 
that has never heard anything but abuse is strangely incred- 
ulous of anything so heavenly as kindness ; and Topsy only 
thought Eva's speech something funny and inexplicable, — 
she did not believe it. 

But what was to be done with Topsy? Miss Ophelia 
found the case a puzzler ; her rules for bringing up did n't 
seem to apply. She thought she would take time to think 
of it ; and, by the way of gaining time, and in hopes of some 
indefinite moral virtues supposed to be inherent in dark 
closets, Miss Ophelia shut Topsy up in one till she had 
arranged her ideas further on the subject. 

"I don't see," said Miss Ophelia to St. Clare, "how I'm 
going to manage that child, without whipping her." 

" Well, whip her, then, to your heart's content ; I '11 give 
you full power to do what you like." 

" Children always have to be whipped," said Miss Ophelia; 
" I never heard of bringing them up without." 

"0, well, certainly," said St. Clare: "do as you think 


best. Only I '11 make one suggestion : I 've seen this child 
whipped with a poker, knocked down with the shovel or 
tongs, whichever came handiest, &c. ; and, seeing that she is 
used to that style of operation, I think your whippings will 
have to be pretty energetic, to make much impression." 

" What is to be done with her, then? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" You have started a serious question," said St. Clare; 
" I wish you 'd answer it. Wftat is to be done with a human 
being that can be governed only by the lash, — that fails, — 
it 's a very common state of things down here ! " 

"I'm sure I don't know; I never saw such a child as 

" Such children are very common among us, and such 
men and women, too. How are they to bo governed?" said 
St. Clare. 

" I'm sure it's more than I can say," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Or I either," said St. Clare. " The horrid cruelties and 
outrages that once and a while find their way into the papers, 
— such cases as Prue's, for example, — what do they come 
from ? In many cases, it is a gradual hardening process on 
both sides, — the owner growing more and more cruel, as the 
servant more and more callous. Whipping and abuse are like 
laudanum ; you have to double the dose as the sensibilities 
decline. I saw this very early when I became an owner ; and 
I resolved never to begin, because I did not know when I 
should stop, — and I resolved, at least, to protect my own 
moral nature. The consequence is, that my servants act like 
spoiled children ; but I think that better than for us both to 
be brutalized together. You have talked a great deal about 
our responsibilities in educating, Cousin. I really wanted you 
tc try Mith one child, who is a specimen of thousands among 


"It is your system makes such children," said Miss 

" I know it ; but they are made, — they exist, — and what 
is to be done with them V 

"Well, I can't say I thank you for the experiment. But, 
then, as it appears to be a duty, I shall persevere and try, and 
do the best I can," said Miss Ophelia; and Miss Ophelia, 
after this, did labor, with a commendable degree of zeal and 
energy, on her new subject. She instituted regular hours 
and employments for her, and undertook to teach her to read 
and to sew. 

In the former art, the child was quick enough. She 
learned her letters as if by magic, and was very soon able 
to read plain reading ; but the sewing was a more difficult 
matter. The creature was as lithe as a cat, and as active as 
a monkey, and the confinement of sewing was her abomina- 
tion ; so she broke her needles, threw them slyly out of 
windows, or down in chinks of the walls ; she tangled, broke, 
and dirtied her thread, or, with a sly movement, would 
throw a spool away altogether. Her motions were almost 
as quick as those of a practised conjurer, and her command 
of her face quite as great ; and though Miss Ophelia could 
not help feeling that so many accidents could not possibly 
happen in succession, yet she could not, without a watchful- 
ness which would leave her no time for anything else, detect 

Topsy was soon a noted character in the establishment. 
Her talent for every species of drollery, grimace, and mim- 
icry, — for dancing, tumbling, climbing, singing, whistling, 
imitating every sound that hit her fancy, — seemed inexhausti- 
ble. In her play-hours, she invariably had every child in the 
establishment at her heels, open-mouthed with admiration 


and wonder, — not excepting Miss Eva, who appeared to be 
fascinated by her wild diablerie, as a dove is sometimes 
charmed by a glittering serpent. Miss Ophelia was uneasy 
that Eva should fancy Topsy's society so much, and implcred 
St. Clare to forbid it. 

" Poh ! let the child alone," said St. Clare. " Topsy will 
do her good." 

" But so depraved a child,- 1 - are you not afraid she will 
teach her some mischief?" 

u She can't teach her mischief; she might teach it to some 
children, but evil rolls off Eva's mind like dew off a cabbage- 
leaf, — not a drop sinks in." 

" Don't be too sure," said Miss Ophelia. " I know I 'd 
never let a child of mine play with Topsy." 

" Well, your children need n't," said St. Clare, " but mine 
may; if Eva could have been spoiled, it would have been 
done years ago." 

Topsy was at first despised and contemned by the upper 
servants. They soon found reason to alter their opinion. It 
was very soon discovered that whoever cast an indignity on 
Topsy was sure to meet with some inconvenient accident 
shortly after ; — either a pair of ear-rings or some cherished 
trinket would be missing, or an article of dress would be sud- 
denly found utterly ruined, or the person would stumble 
accidentally into a pail of hot water, or a libation of dirty slop 
would unaccountably deluge them from above when in full gala 
dress ; — and on all these occasions, when investigation was 
made, there was nobody found to stand sponsor for the 
indignity. Topsy was cited, and had up before all the domes- 
tic judicatories, time and again; but always sustained her 
examinations with most edifying innocence and gravity of 
appearance. Nobody in the world ever doubted who did the 

48 UNCLE TOM'S cabin : OR, 

things ; but not a scrap of any direct evidence could be found 
to establish the suppositions, and Miss Ophelia was too just to 
feel at liberty to proceed to any lengths without it. 

The mischiefs done were always so nicely timed, also, 
as further to shelter the aggressor. Thus, the times for 
revenge on Rosa and Jane, the two chamber-maids, were 
always chosen in those seasons when (as not unfrequently 
happened) they were in disgrace with their mistress, when 
any complaint from them would of course meet with no sym- 
pathy. In short, Topsy soon made the household under- 
stand the propriety of letting her alone ; and she was let alone 

Topsy was smart and energetic in all manual operations, 
learning everything that was taught her with surprising 
quickness. With a few lessons, she had learned to do the 
proprieties of Miss Ophelia's chamber in a way with which 
even that particular lady could find no fault. Mortal hands 
could not lay spread smoother, adjust pillows more accurately, 
sweep and dust and arrange more perfectly, than Topsy, when 
she chose, — but she didn't very often choose. If Miss Ophelia, 
after three or four days of careful and patient supervision, was 
so sanguine as to suppose that Topsy had at last fallen into 
her way, could do without overlooking, and so go off and busy 
herself about something else, Topsy would hold a perfect car- 
nival of confusion, for some one or two hours. Instead of 
making the bed, she i ould amuse herself with pulling off the 
pillow-cases, butting ner woolly head among the pillows, till 
it would sometimes ie grotesquely ornamented with feathers 
sticking out in various directions ; she would climb the posts, 
and hang head downward from the tops ; flourish the sheets 
and spreads all over the apartment ; dress the bolster up in 
Miss Ophelia's night-clothes, and enact various scenic per- 


formances with that, — singing and whistling, and making 
grimaces at herself in the looking-glass ; in short, as Miss 
Ophelia phrased it, "raising Cain" generally. 

On one occasion, Miss Ophelia found Topsy with her very 
hest scarlet India Canton crape shawl wound round her head 
for a turban, going on with her rehearsals before the glass in 
great style, — Miss Ophelia having, with carelessness most 
unheard-of in her, left the key for once in her drawer. 

" Topsy ! " she would say, when at the end of all patience, 
" what does make you act so 1 " 

" Dunno, Missis, — I spects cause I 's so wicked ! " 

" I don't know anything what I shall do with you, Topsy." 

"Law, Missis, you must whip me; my old Missis allers 
whipped me. I an't used to workin' unless I gets whipped." 

" Why, Topsy, I don't want to whip you. You can do 
well, if you 've a mind to ; what is the reason you won't? " 

"Laws, Missis, I 's used to whippin'; I spects it's good 
for me." 

Miss Ophelia tried the recipe, and Topsy invariably made 
a terrible commotion, screaming, groaning and imploring, 
though half an hour afterwards, when roosted on some projec- 
tion of the balcony, and surrounded by a flock of admiring 
" young uns," she would express the utmost contempt of the 
whole affair. 

" Law, Miss Feely whip ! — would n't kill a skeeter, her 
whippins. Oughter see how old Mas'r made the flesh fly ; 
old Mas'r know'd how ! " 

Topsy always made great capital of her own sins and enor- 
mities, evidently considering them as something peculiarly 

" Law, you niggers," she would say to some of her auditors, 
" does you know you 's all sinners ? Well, you is — every- 

VOL. II. 5 


body is. White folks is sinners too, — Miss Feely says so ; but 
I spects niggers is the biggest ones ; but lor ! ye an't any on ye 
up to me. I 's so awful wicked there can't nobody do nothin 1 
with me. I used to keep old Missis a swarin' at me half de 
time. I spects I's the wickedest critter in the world;" and 
Topsy would cut a summerset, and come up brisk and shining 
on to a higher perch, and evidently plume herself on :he dis- 

Miss Ophelia busied herself very earnestly on Sundays, 
teaching Topsy the catechism. Topsy had an uncommon 
verbal memory, and committed with a fluency that greatly 
encouraged her instructress. 

" What good do you expect it is going to do her?" said 
St. Clare. 

"Why, it always has done children good. It's what 
children always have to learn, you know," said Miss Ophelia. 

" Understand it or not," said St. Clare. 

"0, children never understand it at the time; but, after 
they are grown up, it '11 come to them." 

" Mine hasn't come to me yet," said St. Clare, "though 
I '11 bear testimony that you put it into me pretty thoroughly 
when I was a boy." 

"Ah, you were always good at learning, Augustine. I 
used to have great hopes,, of you," said Miss Ophelia. 

"Well, haven't you now?" said St. Clare. 

"I wish you were as good as you were when you were a 
boy, Augustine." 

" So do I, that 's a fact, Cousin," said St. Clare. " Well, 
go ahead and catechize Topsy ; may be you '11 make out 
something yet." 

Topsy, who had stood like a black statue during this dis- 


cussion, with hands decently folded, now, at a signal from 
Miss Ophelia, went on : 

" Our first parents, being left to the freedom of their own 
will, fell from the state wherein they were created." 

Topsy's eyes twinkled, and she looked inquiringly. 

"What is it, Topsy?" said Miss Ophelia. 

" Please, Missis, was dat ar state Kintuck? " 

" What state, Topsy?" 

" Dat state dey fell out of. I used to hear Mas'r tell how 
we came down from Kintuck." 

St. Clare laughed. 

" You '11 have to give her a meaning, or she '11 make one," 
said he. " There seems to be a- theory of emigration sug- 
gested there." 

"0! Augustine, be still," said Miss Ophelia; "how can 
I do anything, if you will be laughing?" 

" Well, I won't disturb the exercises again, on my honor; " 
and St. Clare took his paper into the parlor, and sat down, 
till Topsy had finished her recitations. They were all very 
well, only that now and then she would oddly transpose somo 
important words, and persist in the mistake, in spite of every 
effort to the contrary ; and St. Clare, after all his promises 
of goodness, took a wicked pleasure in these mistakes, calling 
Topsy to him whenever he had a mind to amuse himself, and 
getting her to repeat the offending passages, in spite of Miss 
Ophelia's remonstrances. 

"How do you think I can do anything with the child, if 
you will go on so, Augustine? " she would say. 

" Well, it is too bad, — I won't again ; but I do like to hear 
the droll little image stumble over those big words ! " 

" But you confirm her in the wrong way." 

52 UNCLE tom's cabin: on, 

" What's the odds? One word is as good as another to 

" You wanted me to bring her up right ; and you ought to 
remember she is a reasonable creature, and be careful of jour 
influence over her." 

" 0, dismal ! so I ought ; but, as Topsy herself says, 'I 's 
so wicked ! ' " 

In very much this way Topsy' s training proceeded, for a 
year or two, — Miss Ophelia worrying herself, from day to 
day, with her, as a kind of chronic plague, to whose inflictions 
she became, in time, as accustomed, as persons sometimes do 
to the neuralgia or sick head-ache. 

St. Clare took the same kind of amusement in the child 
that a man might in the tricks of a parrot or a pointer. 
Topsy, whenever her sins brought her into disgrace in other 
quarters, always took refuge behind his chair ; and St. Clare, 
in one way or other, would make peace for her. From him 
she got many a stray picayune, which she laid out in nuts and 
candies, and distributed, with careless generosity, to all the 
children in the family; for Topsy, to do her justice, was 
good-natured and liberal, and only spiteful in self-defence. 
She is fairly introduced into our corps de ballet, and will 
figure, from time to time, in her turn, with other performers. 




Our readers may not be unwilling to glance back, for a 
brief interval, at Uncle Tom's Cabin, on the Kentucky farm, 
and see what has been transpiring among those whom he had 
left behind. 

It was late in the summer afternoon, and the doors and 
windows of the large parlor all stood open, to invite any stray 
breeze, that might feel in a good humor, to enter. Mr. Shelby 
sat in a large hall opening into the room, and running 
through the whole length of the house, to a balcony on either 
end. Leisurely tipped back in one chair, with his heels in 
another, he was enjoying his after-dinner cigar. Mrs. Shelby 
sat in the door, busy about some fine sewing ; she seemed 
like one who had something on her mind, which she was seek- 
ing an opportunity to introduce. 

"Do you know," she said, "that Chloe has had a letter 
from Tom?" 

"Ah! has she? Tom's got some friend there, it seems. 
How is the old boy? " 

"He has been bought by a very fine family, I should 
think," said Mrs. Shelby, — "is kindly treated, and has not 
much to do." 

" Ah ! well, I 'm glad of it, — very glad," said Mr, Shelby, 
heartily. "Tom, I suppose, will get reconciled to a South- 
ern residence; — hardly want to come up here ag&iji." \ 

"On the contrary, he inquires very anxJonoly," said Mrs. 

VOL. II. 5* 


Shelby, "when the money for his redemption is to be 

"I'm sure /don't know," said Mr. Shelby. "Once get 
business running wrong, there does seem to be no end to it. 
It 's like jumping from one bog to another, all through a 
swamp ; borrow of one to pay another, and then borrow of 
another to pay one, — and these confounded notes falling due 
before a man has time to smoke a cigar and turn round, — 
dunning letters and dunning messages, — ■ all scamper and 

"It does seem to me, my dear, that something might be 
done to straighten matters. Suppose we sell off all the 
horses, and sell one of your farms, and pay up square? " 

"0, ridiculous, Emily! You are the finest woman in 
Kentucky; but still you haven't sense to know that you 
don't understand business ; — women never do, and never 

"But, at least," said Mr*. Shelby, "could not you give 
me some little insight into yours ; a list of all your debts, at 
least, and of all that is owed to you, and let me try and 
see if I can't help you to economize." 

"0, bother! don't plague me, Emily! — I can't tell 
exactly. I know somewhere about what things are likely to 
be; but there's no trimming and squaring my affairs, as 
Chloe trims crust off her pies. You don't know anything 
about business, I tell you." 

And Mr. Shelby, not knowing any other way of enforc- 
ing his ideas, raised his voice, — a mode of arguing very con- 
venient and convincing, when a gentleman is discussing mat- 
ters of business with his wife. 

Mrs. Shelby ceased talking, with something of a sigh. 
The fact was, that though her husband had stated she was a 


woman, she had a clear, energetic, practical mind, and a force 
of character every way superior to that of her husband ; so 
that it would not have been so very absurd a supposition, to 
nave allowed her capable of managing, as Mr. Shelby sup- 
posed. Her heart was set on performing her promise to Tom 
and Aunt Chloe, and she sighed as discouragements thickened 
around her. 

" Don't you think we might in some way contrive to raise 
that money? Poor Aunt Chloe ! her heart is so set on it ! " 

" I 'm sorry, if it is. I think I was premature in promis- 
ing. I 'm not sure, now, but it's the best way to tell Chloe, 
and let her make up her mind to it. Tom '11 have another 
wife, in a year or two ; and she had better take up with some- 
body else." 

"Mr. Shelby, I have taught my people that their mar- 
riages are as sacred as ours. I never could think of giving 
Chloe such advice." 

"It's a pity, wife, that you have burdened them with a 
morality above their condition and prospects. I always 
thought so." 

" It 's only the morality of the Bible, Mr. Shelby." 

" Well, well, Emily, I don't pretend to interfere with your 
religious notions ; only they seem extremely unfitted for peo- 
ph in that condition." 

"They are, indeed," said Mrs. Shelby, "and that is why, 
from my soul, I hate the whole thing. I tell you, my dear, / 
cannot absolve myse from the promises I make to these 
helpless creatures, ll I can get the money no other way, I 
will take music-scholars ; — I could get enough, I know, and 
earn the money myself." 

'You wouldn't degrade yourself that way, Emily? I 
never could consent to it." 


" Degrade ! would it degrade me as much as to break my 
faith with the helpless ? No, indeed ! " 

"Well, you are always heroic and transcendental," said 
Mr. Shelby, "but I think you had better think before you 
undertake such a piece of Quixotism." 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the appearance 
of Aunt Chloe, at the end of the verandah. 

"If you please, Missis," said she. 

"Well, Chloe, what is it?" said her mistress, rising, and 
going to the end of the balcony. 

"If Missis would come and look at dis yer lot o' poetry." 

Chloe had a particular fancy for calling poultry poetry,— 
an application of language in which she always persisted, not- 
withstanding frequent corrections and advisings from the 
young members of the family. 

" La sakes ! " she would say, "I can't see ; one jis good as 
turry, — poetry suthin good, any how; " and so poetry Chloe 
continued to call it. 

Mrs. Shelby smiled as she saw a prostrate lot of chickens 
and ducks, over which Chloe stood, with a very grave face of 

" I 'm a thinkin whether Missis would be a havin a chicken 
pie o' dese yer." 

"Really, Aunt Chloe, I don't much care; — serve them 
any way you like." 

Chloe stood handling them over abstractedly ; it was quite 
evident that the chickens were not what she was thinking of. 
At last, with the short laugh with which her tribe often 
introduce a doubtful proposal, she said, 

"Laws me, Missis! what should Mas' r and Missis be a 
troublin theirselves 'bout de money, and not a usin what 's 
right in der hands?" and Chloe laughed again. 


" I don't understand you, Chloe," said Mrs. Shelby, noth- 
ing doubting, from her knowledge of Chloe's manner, that 
she had heard every word of the conversation that had passed 
between her and her husband. 

"Why, laws me, Missis!" said Chloe, laughing again, 
" other folks hires out der niggers and makes money on 'em ! 
Don't keep sich a tribe eatin 'em out of house and home." 

" Well, Chloe, who do you propose that we should hire 

" Laws ! I an't a proposin nothin; only Sam he said der 
was one of dese yer perfectioners, dey calls 'em, in Louisville, 
said he wanted a good hand at cake and pastry; and said he'd 
give four dollars a week to one, he did." 

"Well, Chloe." 

"Well, laws, I's a thinkin, Missis, it's time Sally was 
put along to be doin' something. Sally's been under my 
care, now, dis some time, and she does most as well as me, 
considerin ; and if Missis would only let me go, I would help 
fetch up de money. I an't afraid to put my cake, nor pies 
n other, 'long side no perfectioner '$." 

"Confectioner's, Chloe." 

" Law sakes, Missis ! 't an't no odds ; — words is so curis, 
can't never get 'em right ! " 

" But, Chloe, do you want to leave your children? " 

"Laws, Missis ! de boys is big enough to do day's works; 
dey does well enough; and Sally, she'll take de baby, — she's 
such a peart young un, she won't take no lookin arter." 

" Louisville is a good way off." 

"Law sakes ! who's afeard? — it's down river, somer neai 
my old man, perhaps?" said Chloe, speaking the last in th 
tone of a question, and looking at Mrs. Shelby. 

88 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

" No, Chloe; it's many a hundred miles off," said Mr* 

Chloe' s countenance fell. 

" Never mind; your going there shall bring you nearer, 
Chloe. Yes, you may go ; and your wages shall every cent 
of them be laid aside for your husband's redemption." 

As when a bright sunbeam turns a dark cloud to silver, so 
Chloe' s dark face brightened immediately,- — it really shone. 

"Laws ! if Missis isn't too good ! I was thinking of dat 
ar very thing; cause I shouldn't need no clothes, nor shoes, 
nor nothin, — I could save every cent. How many weeks is 
der in a year, Missis ? " 

" Fifty-two," said Mrs. Shelby. 

"Laws! now, dere is? and four dollars for each on 'em. 
Why, how much'd dat ar be? " 

" Two hundred and eight dollars," said Mrs. Shelby. 

"Why-e!" said Chloe, with an accent of surprise and 
delight; "and how long would it take me to work it out, 

"Some four or five years, Chloe; but, then, you needn't 
do it all, — I shall add something to it." 

"I wouldn't hear to Missis' givin lessons nor nothin. 
Mas'r 's quite right in dat ar ; — 'twould n't do, no ways. I 
hope none our family ever be brought to dat ar, while I 's got 

"Don't fear, Chloe; I'll take care of the honor of the 
family," said Mrs. Shelby, smiling. "But when do you 
expect to go?" 

"Well, I want spectin nothin; only Sam, he's a gwine to 
de river with some colts, and he said I could go long with 
him ; so I jes put my things together. If Missis was willin, 


T 'd go with Sam to-morrow morning, if Missis would write 
my pass, and write me a commendation." 

1 Well, Chloe, I'll attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no 
objections. I must speak to him." 

Mrs. Shelby went up stairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, 
went out to her cabin, to make her preparation. 

"Law sakes, Mas'r George! ye didn't know I's a gwine 
to Louisville to-morrow ! " she said to George, as. entering her 
cabin, he found her busy in sorting over her baby's clothes , 
"I thought I'd jis look over sis's things, and get 'em 
straightened up. But I 'm gwine, Mas'r George, — gwine to 
have four dollars a week ; and Missis is gwine to lay it all 
up, to buy back my old man agin ! " 

"Whew!" said George, "here's a stroke of business, to 
be sure ! How are you going? " 

" To-morrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas'r George, I 
knows you '11 jis sit down and write to my old man, and tell 
him all about it, — won't ye?" 

" To be sure," said George; "Uncle Tom '11 be right glad 
to hear from us. I '11 go right in the house, for paper and 
ink ; <md then, you know, Aunt Chloe, I can tell about the 
new colts and all." 

" Sartin, sartin, Mas'r George; you go 'long, and I'll get 
ye up a bit o' chicken, or some sich; ye won't have many 
more suppers wid yer poor old aunty." 




Life passes, with us all, a day at a time j so it passed with 
our friend Tom, till two years were gone. Though parted 
from all his soul held dear, and though often yearning for 
what lay beyond, still was he never positively and consciously 
miserable ; for, so well is the harp of human feeling strung, 
that nothing but a crash that breaks every string can wholly 
mar its harmony ; and, on looking back to seasons which in 
review appear to us as those of deprivation and trial, we can 
remember that each hour, as it glided, brought its diversions 
and alleviations, so that, though not happy wholly, we were 
not, either, wholly miserable. 

Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had 
" learned in whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content." 
It seemed to him good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded 
well with the settled and thoughtful habit which he had 
acquired from the reading of that same book. 

His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was 
in due time answered by Master George, in a good, round, 
school-boy hand, that Tom said might be read " most acrost 
the room." It contained various refreshing items of home 
intelligence, with which our reader is fully acquainted : 
stated how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner 
in Louisville, where her skill in the pastry line was gaining 
wonderful sums of money, all of which, Tom was informed f 


--»- ■ T — 

was to be laid up to go to make up the sum of his redemption 
money ; Mose and Pete were thriving, and the baby was 
trotting all about the house, under the care of Sally and the 
family generally. 

Tom's cabin was shut up for the present ; but George expa- 
tiated brilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it 
when Tom came back. 

The rest of this letter gave a list of George's school studies^ 
each one headed by a nourishing capital ; and also told the 
names of four new colts that appeared on the premises since 
Tom left ; and stated, in the same connection, that father and 
mother were well. The style of the letter was decidedly 
concise and terse; but Tom thought it the most wonderful 
specimen of composition that had appeared in modern times. 
He was never tired of looking at it, and even held a council 
with Eva on the expediency of getting it framed, to hang up 
in his room. Nothing but the difficulty of arranging it so 
that both sides of the page would show at once stood in the 
way of this undertaking. 

The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the 
child's growth. It would be hard to say what place she held 
in the soft, impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved 
her as something frail and earthly, yet almost worshipped 
her as something heavenly and divine. He gazed on her 
as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the child Jesus, — 
with a mixture of reverence and tenderness ; and to humor 
her graceful fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants 
which invest childhood like a many-colored rainbow, was 
Tom's chief delight. In the market, at morning, his eyes 
were always on the flower -stalls for rare bouquets for her, 
and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into his pocket 
to give to her when he came back ; and the sight that pleased 

vol. it. 6 


him most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his 
distant approach, and her childish question, — "Well, Uncle 
Tom, what have you got for me to-day ? " 

Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though 
a child, she was a beautiful reader; — a fine musical ear a 
quick poetic fancy, and an instinctive sympathy with what is 
grand and noble, made her such a reader of the Bible as Tom 
had never before heard. At first, she read to please her humble 
friend ; but soon her own earnest nature threw out its tendrils, 
and wound itself around the majestic book; and Eva loved it, 
because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim 
emotions, such as impassioned, imaginative children love to 

The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and 
the Prophecies, — parts whose dim and wondrous imagery, 
and fervent language, impressed her the more, that she ques- 
tioned vainly of their meaning ; — and she and her simple 
friend, the old child and the young one, felt just alike about 
it. All that they knew was, that they spoke of a glory to be 
revealed, — a wondrous something yet to come, wherein their 
soul rejoiced, yet knew not why ; and though it be not so in 
the physical, yet in moral science that which cannot be under- 
stood is not always profitless. For the soul awakes, a trem- 
bling stranger, between two dim eternities, — the eternal past, 
the eternal future. The light shines only on a small space 
around her; therefore, she needs must yearn* towards the 
unknown ; and the voices and shadowy movings which come tc 
her from out the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one 
echoes and answers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic 
imagery are so many talismans and gems inscribed with 
unknown hieroglyphics ; she folds them in her bosom, and 
expects to read them when she passes beyond the veil. 


At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establish- 
ment is. for the time being, removed to their villa on Lake 
Pontchartrain. The heats of summer had driven all who 
were able to leave the sultry and unhealthy city, to seek the 
shores of the lake, and its cool sea-breezes. 

St. Clare's villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded by 
light verandahs of bamboo- work, and opening on all sides into 
gardens and pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room 
opened on to a large garden, fragrant with every picturesque 
plant and flower of the tropics, where winding paths ran 
down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery sheet of 
water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams, — a pic- 
ture never for an hour the same, yet every hour more beau- 

It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which 
kindles the whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes 
the water another sky. The lake lay in rosy or golden 
streaks, save where white-winged vessels glided hither and 
thither, like so many spirits, and little golden stars twinkled 
through the glow, and looked down at themselves as they 
trembled in the water. 

Tom and Eva were seated on a litttle mossy seat, in an 
arbor, at the foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and 
Eva's Bible lay open on her knee. She read, — "And I saw 
a sea of glass, mingled with fire." 

" Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the 
lake, " there 'tis." 

"What, Miss Eva?" 

• " Don't you see, — there ? " said the child, pointing to the 
glassy water, which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden 
glow of the sky. " There 's a 'sea of glass, mingled with 
fire.' " 


" True enough. Miss Eva," said Tom ; and Tom sang — 

" 0, had I the wings of the morning, 
I 'd fly away to Canaan's shore ; 
Bright angels should convey me home, 
To the new Jerusalem." 

" Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?' 
said Eva. 

u 0, up in the clouds, Miss Eva." 

1 Then I think I see it," said Eva. " Look in those 
clouds ! — they look like great gates of pearl ; and you can see 
beyond them — far, far off — it 's all gold. Tom, sing about 
* spirits bright.' "*■ 

Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn, 

" I see a band of spirits bright, 
That taste the glories there; 
They all are robed in spotless white, 
And conquering palms they bear.'* 

" Uncle Tom, I 've seen them" said Eva. 

Tom had no doubt of it at all ; it did not surprise him in 
the least. If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he 
would have thought it entirely probable. 

" They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;" 

and Eva's eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low 


" They are all robed in spotless white, 

And conquering palms they bear." 

Uncle Tom," said Eva, "I 'm going there." 

"Where, Miss Eva?" 

The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky ; the 
glow of evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a 
kind of unearthly radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly 
on the skies. 


> ■ ■ ' ■ ■■ - ■ — — i — , — , . , ,.— , ... . -. — 

" I 'm going there" she said, " to the spirits bright, Tom; 
Vm going, before long" 

The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom 
thought hoy/ - often he had noticed, within six months, that 
Eva's little hands had grown thinner, and her skin more 
transparent, and her breath shorter ; and how, when she ran or 
played in the garden, as she once could for hours, she became 
soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak 
often of a cough, that all her medicaments could not cure ; 
and even now that fervent cheek and little hand were burning 
with hectic fever; and yet the thought that Eva's words 
suggested had never come to him till now. 

Has there ever been a child like Eva ? Yes, there have 
been ; but their names are always on grave-stones, and their 
sweet smiles, their heavenly eyes, their singular words and 
ways, are among the buried treasures of yearning hearts. In 
how many families do you hear the legend that all the good- 
ness and graces of the living are nothing to the peculiar 
charms of one who is not. It is as if heaven had an especial 
band of angels, whose office it was to sojourn for a season 
here, and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they 
might bear it upward with them in their homeward flight. 
When you see that deep, spiritual light in the eye, — when the 
little soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than the 
ordinary words of children, — hope not to retain that child ; for 
the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality looks 
out from its eyes. 

Even so, beloved Eva ! fair star of thy dwelling ! Thou 
art passing away ; but they that love thee dearest know it not. 

The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a 
hasty call from Miss Ophelia. 

VOL. II. 6* 


" Eva — Eva! — why, child, the dew is falling; you 
must n't be out there ! " 

Eva and Tom hastened in. 

Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. 
She was from New England, and knew well the first guileful 
footsteps of that soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so 
many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life 
seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death. 

She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening 
cheek ; nor could the lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy 
born of fever, deceive her. 

She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare ; but he 
threw back her suggestions w T ith a restless petulance, unlike 
his usual careless good-humor. 

" Don't be croaking, Cousin, — I hate it ! " he would say ; 
"don't you see that the child is only growing. Children 
always lose strength when they grow fast." 

" But she has that cough ! " 

"0! nonsense of that cough ! — it is not anything. She 
has taken a little cold, perhaps." 

" Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and 
Ellen and Maria Sanders." 

" ! stop these hobgoblin' nurse legends. You old hands 
got so wise, that a child cannot cough, or sneeze, but you see 
desperation and ruin at hand. Only take care of the child, 
keep her from the night air, and don't let her play too hard, 
and she ? 11 do well enough." 

So St. Clare said ; but he grew nervous and restless. He 
■watched Eva feverishly day by day, as might be told by the 
frequency with which he repeated over that " the child was 
quite well " — that there was n't anything in that cough, — it 
was only some little stomach affection, such as children often 


had. But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener 
to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt 
or strengthening mixture, — " not," he said, " that the child 
needed it, but then it would not do her any harm." 

If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to 
his heart than anything else was the daily increasing matur- 
ity of the child's mind and feelings. While still retaining all 
a child's fanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously, 
words of such a reach of thought, and strange unworldly 
wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such 
times, St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in 
his arms, as if that fond clasp could save her ; and his heart 
rose up with wild determination to keep her, never to let 
her go. 

The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works 
of love and kindness. Impulsively generous she had always 
been ; but there was a touching and womanly thoughtfulness 
about her now, that every one noticed. She still loved to 
play with Topsy, and the various colored children ; but she 
now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of their plays, 
and she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the 
odd tricks of Topsy, — and then a shadow would seem to pass 
across her face, her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were 

" Mamma," she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, 
1 why don't we teach our servants to read ? " 

" What a question, child ! People never do." 

" Why don't they ? " said Eva. 

" Because it is no use for them to read. It don't help 
them to wcrk any better, and they are not made for anything 


" But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God's 

"CM they can get that read to them all they need." 

"It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to 
read themselves. They need it a great many times when 
there is nobody to read it." 

" Eva, you are an odd child," said her mother. 

" Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read," continued Eva. 

" Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the 
worst creature I ever saw! " 

" Here 's poor Mammy ! " said Eva. " She does love the 
Bible so much, and wishes so she could read ! And what will 
she do when I can't read to her? " 

Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as 
she answered, 

"Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will* have other 
things to think of, besides reading the Bible round to servants. 
Not but that is very proper ; I 've done it myself, when I had 
health. But when you come to be dressing and going into 
company, you won't have time. See here ! " she added, 
" these jewels I 'm going to give you when you come out. I 
wore them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a 

Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond neck- 
lace. Her large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was 
plain her thoughts were elsewhere. 

" How sober you look, child ! " said Marie. 

" Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma ? " 

"To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them. 
They are worth a small fortune." 

" I wish I had them," said Eva, "to do what I pleased 
with ! ' 


" What would you do with them? " 

" I 'd sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take 
all our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read 
and write." 

Eva was cut short by her mother's laughing. 

u Set up a boarding-school ! "Would n't you teach then 
to play on the piano, and paint on velvet ?" 

" I M teach them to read their own Bible, and write thei , 
own letters, and read letters that are written to them," sail 
Eva, steadily. " I know, mamma, it does come very hard on 
them, that they can't do these things. Tom feels it, — 
Mammy does, — a great many of them do. I think it's 

"Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You lon't 
know anything about these things," said Marie; "besides, 
your talking makes my head ache." 

Marie always had a head-ache on hand for any conversa- 
tion that did not exactlysuit her. 

Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously gave 
Mammy reading lessons. 




About this time, St. Clare's brother Alfred, with his eldest 
son, a boy of twelve, spent a day or two with the family at 
the lake. 

No sight could be more singular and beautiful than that of 
these twin brothers. Nature, instead of instituting resem- 
blances between them, had made them opposites on every 
point ; yet a mysterious tie seemed to unite them in a closer 
friendship than ordinary. 

They used to saunter, arm in arm, up and down the alleys 
and walks of the garden. Augustine, with his blue eyes 
and golden hair, his ethereally flexible form and vivacious 
features ; and Alfred, dark-eyed, with haughty Roman profile, 
firmly-knit limbs, and decided bearing. They were always 
abusing each other's opinions and practices, and yet never a 
whit the less absorbed in each other's society ; in fact, the 
very contrariety seemed to unite them, like the attraction 
between opposite poles of the magnet. 

Henrique, the eldest son of Alfred, was a noble, dark-eyed, 
princely boy, full of vivacity and spirit ; and, from the first 
moment of introduction, seemed to be perfectly fascinated by 
the spirituelle graces of his cousin Evangeline. 

Eva had a little pet pony, of a snowy whiteness. It was 
easy as a cradle, and as gentle as its little mistress ; and this 
pony was now brought up to the back verandah by Tom, 


while a little mulatto boy of about thirteen led along a small 
black Arabian, which had just been imported, at a great 
expense, for Henrique. 

Henrique had a boy's pride in his new possession ; and, as 
he advanced and took the reins out of the hands of his little 
groom, he looked carefully over him, and his brow darkened. 

"What's this, Dodo, you little lazy dog! you haven't 
rubbed my horse down, this morning." 

"Yes, Mas'r," said Dodo, submissively; "he got that 
dust on his own self." • 

"You rascal, shut your mouth! " said Henrique, violently 
raising his riding-whip. " How dare you speak? " 

The boy was a handsome, bright-eyed mulatto, of just 
Henrique's size, and his curling hair hung round a high, 
bold forehead. He had white blood in his veins, as could be 
seen by the quick flush in his cheek, and the sparkle of his 
eye, as he eagerly tried to speak. 

" Mas'r Henrique ! — " he began. 

Henrique struck him across the face with his riding-whip, 
and, seizing one of his arms, forced him on to his knees, and 
beat him till he was out of breath. 

"There, you impudent dog ! Now will you learn not to 
answer back when I speak to you ? Take the horse back, 
and clean him properly. I '11 teach you your place ! " 

"Young Mas'r," said Tom, "I specs what he was gwine 
to say was, that the horse would roll when he was bringing 
him up from the stable ; he 's so full of spirits, — that 's the 
way he got that dirt on him ; I looked to his cleaning." 

" You hold your tongue till you 're asked to speak ! " said 
Henrique, turning on his heel, and walking up the steps to 
speak to Eva, who stood in her riding-dress. 

"Dear Cousin, I'm sorry this stupid fellow has kept you 

72 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

waiting," he said. " Let's sit down here, on this seat, till 
the j come. What 's the matter, Cousin 1 — you look sober." 

"How could you be so cruel and -wicked to poor Dodo?" 
said Eva. 

" Cruel, — wicked ! " said the boy, -with unaffected surprise. 
" What do you mean, dear Eva? " 

" I don't want you to call me dear Eva, when you do so," 
said Eva. 

" Dear Cousin, you don't know Dodo ; it 's the only way to 
manage him, he 's so full of Iks and excuses. The only way 
is to put him down at once, — not let him open his mouth ; 
that's the way papa manages." 

"But Uncle Tom said it was an accident, and he never 
tells what isn't true." 

"He's an uncommon old nigger, then!" said Henrique. 
" Dodo will lie as fast as he can speak." 

"You frighten him into deceiving, if you treat him so." 

"Why, Eva, you've really taken such a fancy to Dodo, 
that I shall be jealous." 

"But you beat him, — and he didn't' deserve it." 

" 0, well, it may go for some time when he does, and 
don't get it. A few cuts never come amiss with Dodo, — 
he 's a regular spirit, I can tell you ; but I won't beat him 
again before you, if it troubles you." 

Eva was not satisfied, but found it in vain to try to make 
her handsome cousin understand her feelings. 

Dodo soon appeared, with the horses. 

" Well, Dodo, you 've done pretty well, this time," said his 
young master, with a more gracious air. "Come, now, and 
hold Miss Eva's horse, while I put her on to the saddle." 

Dodo came and stood by Eva's pony. His face was 
troubled ; his eyes looked as if he had been crying. 


Henrique, who valued himself on his gentlemanly adroit- 
ness in all matters of gallantry, soon had nis fair cousin in 
the saddle, and, gathering the reins, placed tliem in her 
hands. ■ 

But Eva bent to the other side of the horse, where Dodo 
was standing, and said, as he relinquished the reins, -- 
" That 's a good boy, Dodo ; — thank you ! " 

Dodo looked up in amazement into the sweet young face ; 
the blood rushed to his cheeks, and the tears to his eyes. 

"Here, Dodo," said his master, imperiously. 

Dodo sprang and held the horse, while his master mounted. 

"There's a picayune for you to buy candy with, Dodo," 
said Henrique; "go get some." 

And Henrique cantered down the walk after Eva. Dodo 
stood looking after the two children. One had given him 
money ; and one had given him what he wanted far more, — 
a kind word, kindly spoken. Dodo had been only a few 
months away from his mother. His master had bought him 
at a slave warehouse, for his handsome face, to be a match to 
the handsome pony; and he was now getting his breaking in, 
at the hands of his young master. 

The scene of the beating had been witnessed by the two 
brothers St. Clare, from another part of the garden. 

Augustine's cheek flushed; but he only observed, with his 
usual sarcastic carelessness, 

" I suppose that's what we may call republican education , 

" Henrique is a devil of a fellow, when his blood's up," said 
Alfred, carelessly. 

" I suppose you consider this an instructive practice for 
him," said Augustine, drily. 

"I couldn't help it, if I didn't. Henrique is a regular 

VOL. II. 7 


little tempest ; — his mother and I have given him up, long 
ago. But, then, that Dodo is a perfect sprite, — no amount 
of whipping can hurt him." 

" And this by way of teaching Henrique the first verse of a 
republican's catechism, 'All men are born free and equal ! J " 

" Poh ! " said Alfred ; " one of Tom Jefferson's pieces of 
French sentiment and humbug. It 's perfectly ridiculous to 
have that going the rounds among us, to this day." 

" I think it is," said St. Clare, significantly. 

" Because," said Alfred, " we can see plainly enough that 
all men ate not born free, nor born equal ; they are born 
anything else. For my part, I think half this republican 
talk sheer humbug. It is the educated, the intelligent, the 
wealthy, the refined, who ought to have equal rights, and not 
the canaille." 

"If you can keep the canaille of that opinion," said 
Augustine. " They took their turn once, in France." 

" Of course, they must be kept doivn, consistently, 
steadily, as I should" said Alfred, setting his foot hard 
down, as if he were standing on somebody. 

" It makes a terriMe slip when they get up," said Augus- 
tine, — "in St. ~D(r jngo, for instance." 

"Poh!" said Alfred, "we'll take care cf that, in this 
country. We -aust set our face against all this educating, 
elevating talk, that is getting about now; the lower class 
must not be educated." 

"That is past praying for," said Augustine; "educate-:! 
they will be, and we have only to say how. Our system is 
educating them in barbarism and brutality. We are break- 
ing all humanizing ties, and making them brute beasts ; and, 
if they get the upper hand, such we shall find them." 

" They never shall get the upper hand ! " said Alfred. 


"That s right," said St. Clare; "put on the steam, fasten 
down the escape- valve, and sit on it, and see where you'll 

"Well," said Alfred, "we will see. I'm not afraid to 
sit on the escape-valve, as long as the boilers are strong, and 
the machinery works well." 

'The nobles in Louis XVI. 's time thought just so; and 
Austria and Pius IX. think so now ; and, some pleasant morn- 
ing, you may all be caught up to meet each other in the air, 
when the boilers burst." 

" Dies declarabit" said Alfred, laughing. 
* "I tell you," said Augustine, "if there is anything that 
is revealed with the strength of a divine law in our times, it 
is that the masses are to rise, and the under class become 
the upper one." 

"That's one of your red republican humbugs, Augus- 
tine! Why didn't you ever take to the stump; — you'd 
make a famous stump orator ! Well, I hope I shall be dead 
before this millennium of your greasy masses comes on.", 

" Greasy or not greasy, they will govern you, when their 
time comes," said Augustine; "and they will be just such 
rulers as you make them. The French noblesse chose to 
have the people ' sans culottes,' and they had l satis culotte 1 
governors to their hearts' content. The people of Hayti — " 

" 0, come, Augustine! as if we hadn't had enough of that 
abominable, contemptible Hayti ! The Haytiens were not 
Anglo Saxons; if they had been, there would have been 
another story. The Anglo Saxon is the dominant race of the 
world, and is to be so." 

"Well, there is a pretty fair infusion of Anglo Saxon 
blood among our slaves, now," said Augustine. "There a*e 
plenty among them who have only enough of the African to 

7G UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

give a sort of tropical warmth and fervor to our calculating 
firmness and foresight. If ever the San Domingo hour 
comes, Anglo Saxon blood will lead on the day. Sons of 
white fathers, with all our haughty feelings burning in their 
veins, will not always be bought and sold and traded. They 
will rise, and raise with them their mother's race." 

" Stuff! — nonsense ! " 

"Well," said Augustine, "there goes an old saying to 
this effect ' As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be ; — 
they ate, they drank, they planted, they builded, and knew 
not till the flood came and took them.' " 

" On the whole, Augustine, I think your talents might do 
for a circuit rider," said Alfred, laughing. " Never you 
fear for us ; possession is our nine points. We 've got the 
power. This subject race," said he, stamping firmly, "is 
down, and shall stay down ! We have energy enough to 
manage our own powder." 

" Sons trained like your Henrique will be grand guardians 
of your powder-magazines," said Augustine, — "so cool and 
self-possessed ! The proverb says, ' They that cannot govern 
themselves cannot govern others.' " 

"There is a trouble there," said Alfred, thoughtfully; 
" there 's no doubt that our system is a difficult one to train 
children under. It gives too free scope to the passions, alto- 
gether, which, in our climate, are hot enough. I find trouble 
with Henrique. The boy is generous and warm-hearted, but 
a perfect fire-cracker when excited. I believe I shall send 
him North for his education, where obedience is more fashion- 
able, and where he will associate more with equals, and less 
widi dependants." 

' Since training children is the staple work of the human 


race," said Augustine, "I should think it something of a 
consideration that our system does not work well there." 

" It does not for some things," said Alfred; "for others* 
again, it does. It makes boys manly and courageous ; an<? 
the very vices of an abject race tend to strengthen in theru 
the opposite virtues. I think Henrique, now, has a keenci 
sense of the beauty of truth, from seeing lying and deception 
the universal badge of slavery." 

"A Christian-like view of the subject, certainly!" said 

"It's true, Christian-like or not; and is about as Chris- 
tian-like as most other things in the world," said Alfred. 

"That may be," said St. Clare. 

"Well, there's no use in talking, Augustine. I believe 
we've been round and round this old track five hundred 
times, more or less. What do you say to a game of back- 

The two brothers ran up the verandah steps, and were 
soon seated at a light bamboo stand, with the backgammon- 
board between them. As they were setting their men, Alfred 

"I tell you, Augustine, if I thought as you do, I should 
gd something." 

" I dare say you would, — you are one of the doing sort, — 
but what?" 

"Why, elevate your own servants, for a specimen," said 
Alfred, with a half-scornful smile. 

" You might as well set Mount iEtna on them flat, and tell 
them to stand up under it, as tell me to elevate my servants 
under all the superincumbent mass of society upon them. 
One man can do nothing, against the whole action of a com- 
munity. Education, to do anything, must be a state educa- 

VOL. II. 7* 

78 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

tion; or there must be enough agreed in it to make ? cur- 

" You take the first throw," said Alfred; and the bi thers 
were soon lost in the game, and heard no more till the scrap- 
ing of horses' feet was heard under the verandah. 

' ' There come the children, ' ' said Augustine, rising. ' ' Look 
here, Alf ! Did you ever see anything so beautiful ?" And, 
in truth, it xoas a beautiful sight. Henrique, with his bold 
brow, and dark, glossy curls, and glowing cheek, was laugh- 
ing gayly, as he bent towards his fair cousin, as they came on. 
She was dressed in a blue riding-dress, with a cap of the 
same color. Exercise had given a brilliant hue to her cheeks, 
and heightened the effect of her singularly transparent skin, 
and golden hair. 

"Good heavens! what perfectly dazzling beauty !" said 
Alfred. "I tell you, Auguste, won't she make some hearts 
ache, one of these days?" 

" She will, too truly, — God knows I 'm afraid so! " said St. 
Clare, in a tone of sudden bitterness, as he hurried down to 
take her off her horse. 

" Eva, darling! you're not much tired?" he said, as he 
clasped her in his arms. 

" No, papa," said the child; but her short, hard breathing 
alarmed her father. 

"How could you ride so fast, dear? — you know it's bad 
for you." 

" I felt so well, papa, and liked it so much, I forgot." 

St. Clare carried her in his arms into the parlor, and laid 
her on the sofa. 

" Henrique, you must be careful of Eva," said he; "you 
mustn't ride fast with her." 


"I'll take her under my care," said Henrique, seating 
himself by the sofa, and taking Eva's hand. 

Eva soon found herself much better. Her father and uncle 
resumed their game, and the children were left together. 

" Do you know. Eva, I'm so sorry papa is only going to 
stay two days here, and then I shan't see you again for ever 
so long ! If I stay with you, I 'd try to be good, and not be 
cross to Dodo, and so on. I don't mean to treat Dodo ill ; 
but, you know, I 've got such a quick temper. I 'm not 
really bad to him, though. I give him a picayune, now and 
then"; and you see he dresses well. I think, on the whole, 
Dodo 's pretty well off." 

" Would you think you were well off, if there were not 
one creature in the world near you to love you? " 

"I? — Well, of course not." 

" And you have taken Dodo away from all the friends he 
ever had, and now he has not a creature to love him ; — no- 
body can be good that way." 

"Well, I can't help it, as I know of. I can't get his 
mother, and I can't love him myself, nor anybody else, as I 
know of." 

" Why can't you ? " said Eva. 

" Love Dcdo! Why, Eva, you wouldn't have me! I 
may like him well enough ; but you don't love your servants." 

" 1 do, indeed." 

"How odd!" 

" Don't the Bible say we must love everybody? " 
' 0, the Bible ! To be sure, it says a great many such 
things; but, then, nobody ever thinks of doing them, — you 
know, Eva, nobody does." 

Eva did not speak ; her eyes were fixed and thoughtful, for 
a few moments. 


" At any rate," she said, " dear Cousin, do love poor Dodo, 
and be kind to him, for my sake ! " 

" I could love anything, for your sake, dear Cousin; for 1 
really think you are the loveliest creature that I ever saw! " 
And Henrique spoke with an earnestness that flushed his 
handsome face. Eva received it with perfect simplicity, with- 
out even a change of feature ; merely saying, " I 'm glad you 
feel so, dear Henrique ! I hope you will remember." 

The dinner-bell put an end to the interview 



Two days after this, Alfred St. Clare and Augustine 
parted ; and Eva, who had been stimulated, by the society of 
her young cousin, to exertions beyond her strength, began to 
fail rapidly. St. Clare was at last willing to call in medical 
advice, — a thing from which he had always shrunk, because 
it was the admission of an unwelcome truth. 

But, for a day or two, Eva was so unwell as to be confined 
to the house ; and the doctor was called. 

Marie St. Clare had taken no notice of the child's gradually 
decaying health and strength, because she was completely 
absorbed in studying out two or three new forms of disease 
to which she believed she herself was a victim. It was the 
first principle of Marie's belief that nobody ever was or could 
be so great a sufferer as herself; and, therefore, she always 
repelled quite indignantly any suggestion that any one around 
her could be sick. She was always sure, in such a case, that 


it was nothing but laziness, or want of energy ; and that, if 
they had had the suffering she had, they would soon know 
the difference. 

Miss Ophelia h*id several times tried to awaken her mater- 
nal fears about Eva ; but to no avail. 

" I don't see as anything ails the child," she would say 
J: she runs about, and plays." 

" But she has a cough." 

" Cough ! you don't need to tell me about a cough. I 've 
always been subject to a cough, all my days. When I was 
of Eva's age, they thought I was in a consumption. Night 
after night, Mammy used to sit up with me. ! Eva's 
cough is not anything." 

" But she gets weak, and is short-breathed." 

" Law ! I 've had that, years and years ; it 's only a nerv- 
ous affection." 

11 But she sweats so, nights ! " 

" Well, I have, these ten years. Very often, night after 
night, my clothes will be wringing wet. There won't be a dry 
thread in my night-clothes, and the sheets will be so that 
Mammy has to hang them up to dry ! Eva does n't sweat 
anything like that ! " 

Miss Ophelia shut her mouth for a season. But, now 
that Eva was fairly and visibly prostrated, and a doctor 
called, Marie, all on a sudden, took a new turn. 

"She knew it," she said; "she always felt it, that she 
was destined to be the most miserable of mothers. Here she 
was, with her wretched health, and her only darling child 
going down to the grave before her eyes;" — and Marie 
routed up Mammy nights, and rumpussed and scolded, with 
more energy than ever, all day, on the strength of this new 


" My dear Marie, don't talk so ! " said St. Clare. "You 
ought not to give up the case so, at once." 

" You have not a mother's feelings, St. Clare! You never 
could understand me ! — you don't now." 

" But don't talk so, as if it were a gone ease ! " 

" I can't take it as indifferently as you can, St. Clare. If 
you don't feel when your only child is in this alarming state, 
/do. It 's a blow too much for me, with all I was bearing 

" It 's true," said St. Clare, " that Eva is very delicate, that 
I always knew ; and that she has grown so rapidly as to 
exhaust her strength ; and thstf her situation is critical. But 
just now she is only prostrated by the heat of the weather, 
and by the excitement of her cousin's visit, and the exer- 
tions she made. The physician says there is room for hope." 

" Well, of course, if you can look on the bright side, pray 
do ; it ? s a mercy if people have n't sensitive feelings, in this 
world. I am sure I wish I didn't feel as I do ; it only 
makes me completely wretched ! I wish I could be as easy 
as the rest of you ! " 

And the "rest of them" had good reason to breathe the 
same prayer, for Marie paraded her new misery as the reason 
and apology for all sorts of inflictions on every one about her. 
Every word that was spoken by anybody, everything that 
was done or was not done everywhere, was only a new proof 
that she was surrounded by hard-hearted, insensible beings, 
who were unmindful of her peculiar sorrows. Poor Eva heard 
some of these speeches ; and nearly cried her little eyes out, in 
pity for her mamma, and in sorrow that she should make her 
so much distress. 

In a week or two, there was a great improvement of symp- 
toms,~ -one of those deceitful lulls, by which her inexorable 


disease so often beguiles the anxious heart, even on the verge 
of the grave. Eva's step was again in the garden, — in the 
balconies; she played and laughed again, — and her father, 
in a transport, declared that they should soon have her as 
hearty as anybody. Miss Ophelia and the physician alone 
felt no encouragement from this illusive truce. There was 
one other heart, too, that felt the same certainty, and that 
was the little heart of Eva. \V1iat is it that sometimes speaks 
in the soul so calmly, so clearly, that its earthly time is 
short ? Is it the secret instinct of decaying nature, or the 
soul's impulsive throb, as immortality draws on ] Be it what 
it may, it rested in the heart of Eva, a calm, sweet, prophetic 
certainty that Heaven was near ; calm as the light of sunset, 
sweet as the bright stillness of autumn, there her little heart 
reposed, only troubled by sorrow for those who loved her so 

For the child, though nursed so tenderly, and though life 
was unfolding before her with every brightness that love and 
wealth could give, had no regret for herself in dying. 

In that book which she and her simple old friend had read 
so much together, she had seen and taken to her young heart 
the image of one who loved the little child ; and, as she gazed 
and mused, He had ceased to be an image and a picture of 
the distant past, and come to be a living, all-surrounding 
reality. His love enfolded her childish heart with more than 
mortal tenderness ; and it was to Him, she said, she was going, 
and to his home. 

But her heart yearned with sad tenderness for all that she 
was to leave behind. Her father most, — for Eva, though 
she never distinctly thought so, had an instinctive perception 
that she was more in his heart than any other. She loved 
her mother because she was so loving a creature, and all the 


selfishness that she had seen in her only saddened and perplexed 
her; for she had a child's implicit trust that her mother 
could not do wrong. There was something about her that 
Eva never could make out ; and she always smoothed it over 
with thinking that, after all, it was mammd^ and she loved 
her very dearly indeed. 

She felt, too, for those fond, faithful servants, to whom she 
was as daylight and sunshine. Children do not usually gen- 
eralize ; but Eva was an uncommonly mature child, and the 
things that she had witnessed of the evils of the system under 
which they were living had fallen, one by one, into the depths 
of her thoughtful, pondering heart. She had vague long- 
ings to do something for them, — to bless and save not only 
them, but all in their condition, — longings that contrasted 
sadly with the feebleness of her little frame. 

" Uncle Tom," she said, one day, w 7 hen she was reading to 
her friend, "I can understand why Jesus wanted to die for 

"Why, Miss Eva?" 

" Because I've felt so, too." 

" What is it, Miss Eva ? — I don't understand." 

" I can't tell you ; but, w T hen I saw those poor creatures on 
the boat, you know, when you came up and I, — some had lost 
their mothers, and some their husbands, and some mothers 
cried for their little children, — and when I heard about poor 
Prue, — oh, was n't that dreadful ! — and a great many other 
times, I 've felt that I would be glad to die, if my dying 
could stop all this misery. I would die for them, Tom, if I 
could," said the child, earnestly, laying her little thin hand 
on his. 

Tom looked at the child with awe ; and when she, hearing 


her father's voice, glided away, he wiped his eyes many times, 
as he looked after her. 

" It 's jest no use tryin' to keep Miss Eva here," he said 
to Mammy, whom he met a moment after. " She 's got the 
"Lord's mark in^er forehead." 

•'Ah, yes, yes," said Mammy, raising her hands; "I've 
tilers said so. She was n't never like a child that ; s to lire 
— there was allers something* deep in her eyes. I've told 
Missis so, many the time ; it 's a comin' true, — we all sees it, 
— dear, little, blessed lamb ! " 

Eva came tripping up the verandah steps to her father. It 
was late in the afternoon, and the rays of the sun formed a 
kind of glory behind her, as she came forward in her white 
dress, with her golden hair and glowing cheeks, her eyes 
unnaturally bright with the slow fever that burned in her 

St. Clare had called her to show a statuette that he had 
been buying for her ; but her appearance, as she came on, 
impressed him suddenly and painfully. There is a kind of 
beauty so intense, yet so fragile, that we cannot bear to look 
at it. Her father folded her suddenly in his arms, and 
almost forgot what he was going to tell her. 

" Eva, dear, you are better now-a-days, — are you not? " 

11 Papa," said Eva, with sudden firmness, "I've had things 
I wanted to say to you, a great while. I want to say them 
now, before 1 get weaker." 

St. Clare trembled as Eva seated herself in his lap. She 
laid her head on his bosom, and said, 

" It 's all no use, papa, to keep it to myself any longer. 
The time is coming that I am going to leave you. I am 
going, and never to come back! " and Eva sobbed. 

" 0, now, my dear little Eva!" said St. Clare, trembling 

VOL. II. 8 


as he spoke, but speaking cheerfully, "you've got nervous 
and low-spirited; you mustn't indulge such gloomy thoughts. 
See here, I 've bought a statuette for you ! " 

"No, papa," said Eva, putting it gently away, "don't 
deceive yourself ! — I am not any better, I l^pw it perfectly 
well,-— and I am going, before long. I am not nervous, — I am 
not luw-spirited. If it were not for you, papa, and my 
friends, I should be perfectly hUppy. I want to go, — I long 
to go ! " 

" Why, dear child, what has made your poor little heart so 
sad? You have had everything, to make you happy, that 
could be given you." 

" I had rather be in heaven; though, only for my friends' 
sake, I would be willing to live. There are a great many 
things here that make me sad, that seem dreadful to me ; I 
had rather be there; but I don't want to leave you, — 'it 
almost breaks my heart ! " 

" What makes you sad, and seems dreadful, Eva?" 

" 0, things that are done, and done all the time. I feel 
sad for our poor people ; they love me dearly, and they aro 
all good and kind to me. I wish, papa, they were all free." 

" Why, Eva, child, don't you think they are well enough 
off now?" 

" ; but, papa, if anything should happen to you, what 
would become of them ? There are very few men like you, 
papa. Uncle Alfred isn't like you, and mamma isn't; and 
then, think of poor old Prue's owners ! What horrid things 
people do, and can do ! " and Eva shuddered. 

" My dear child, you are too sensitive. I'm sorry I ever 
let you hear such stories." 

"0, that 's what troubles me, papa. You want me to live 
so happy, and never to have any pain, — never suffer any- 


thing, — not even hear a sad story, when otner poor creatures 
have nothing but pain and sorrow, all their lives : — it seems 
selfish. I ought to know such things, I ought to feel about 
them ! Such things always sunk into my heart ; they went 
iowndeep; I've thought and thought about them. Papa, 
»s n't there any way to have all slaves made free?" 

"That's a difficult question, dearest. There's no doubt 
that this way is a very bad one ; a great many people think 
so ; I do myself. I heartily wish that there were not a slave 
in the land ; but, then, I don't know what is to be done about 

" Papa, you are such a good man, and so noble, and kind, 
and you always have a way of saying things that is so pleas- 
ant, could n't you go all round and try to persuade people to 
do right about this ? When I am dead, papa, then you will 
think of me, and do it for my sake. I would do it, if I 

"When you are dead, Eva," said St. Clare, passionately. 
"0, child, don't talk to me so ! You are all I have on 

" Poor old Prue's child was all that she had, — and yet she 
had to hear it crying, and she could n't help it ! Papa, these 
poor creatures love their children as much as you do me. ! 
do something for them ! There 's poor Mammy loves her 
children ; I 've seen her cry when she talked about them. 
And Tom loves his children ; and it 's dreadful, papa, that 
such things are happening, all the time ! " 

''There, there, darling," said St. Clare, soothingly; "only 
don't distress yourself, and don't talk of dying, and I will do 
anything you wish." 

"And promise me, dear father, that Tom shall have his 


freedom as soon as" — she stopped, and said, in a hesitating 
tone — "lam gone ! " 

" Yes. dear, I will do anything in the world, — anything 
you could ask me to." 

"Dear papa," said the child, laying her burning cheek 
against his, " how I wish we could go together ! " 

"Where, dearest?" said St. Clare. 

" To our Saviour's home ; it 's so sweet and peaceful there 
— it is all so loving there ! " The child spoke unconsciously, 
as of a place where she had often been. " Don't you want to 
go, papa?" she said. 

St. Clare drew her closer to him, but was silent. 

" You will come to me," said the child, speaking in a voice 
of calm certainty which she often used unconsciously. 

" I shall come after you. I shall not forget you." 

The shadows of the solemn evening closed round them 
deeper and deeper, as St. Clare sat silently holding the little 
frail form to his bosom. He saw no more the deep eyes, but 
the voice came over him as a spirit voice, and, as in a sort of 
judgment vision, his whole past life rose in a moment before his 
eyes : his mother's prayers and hymns ; his own early yearn- 
ings and aspirings for good ; and, between them and this hour, 
years of worldliness and scepticism, and what man calls 
respectable living. We can think much, very much, in 
a moment. St. Clare saw and felt many things, but spoke 
nothing ; and, as it grew darker, he took his child to her bed- 
room ; and, when she was prepared for rest, he sent away the 
attendants, and rocked her in his arms, and sung to her till 
she was asleep. 




It was Sunday afternoon. St. Clare was stretched on a 
bamboo lounge in the verandah, solacing himself with a cigar. 
Marie lay reclined on a sofa, opposite the window opening on 
the verandah, closely secluded, under an awning of transpar- 
ent gauze, from the outrages of the mosquitos, and languidly 
holding in her hand an elegantly bound prayer-book. She 
was holding it because it was Sunday, and she imagined 
she had been reading it, — though, in fact, she had been only 
taking a succession of short naps, with it open in her hand. 

Miss Ophelia, who, after some rummaging, had hunted up 
a small Methodist meeting within riding distance, had *gone 
out, with Tom as driver, to attend it ; and Eva had accom- 
panied them. 

"I say, Augustine," said Marie after dozing awhile, "I 
must send to the city after my old Doctor Posey ; I 'm sure 
I've got the complaint of the heart." 

1 ' Well ; why need you send for him ? This doctor tliut 
attends Eva seems skilful." 

"I would not trust him in a critical case," said Marie; "and 
I think I may say mine is becoming so ! I 've been thinking 
of it, these two or three nights past ; I have such distressing 
pains, and such strange feelings." 

" 0, Marie, you are blue; I don't believe it 's heart com- 

" I dare say you don't," said Marie ; "I was prepared to 
expect that. You can be alarmed enough, if Eva coughs, or 

VOL. II. 8* 



has the least thing the matter with her ; but you never think 
of me." 

"Kit's particularly agreeable to you to have heart dis- 
ease, why, I '11 try and maintain you have it," said St. 
Clare ; " I did n't know it was." 

" Well, I only hope you won't be sorry for this, when it 's 
too late!" said Marie; "but, believe it or not, my distress 
about Eva, and the exertions I have made with that dear 
child, have developed what I have long suspected." 

What the exertions were which Marie referred to, it would 
have been difficult to state. St. Clare quietly made this com- 
mentary to himself, and went on smoking, like a hard-hearted 
wretch of a man as he was, till a carriage drove up before the 
verandah, and Eva and Miss Ophelia alighted. 

Miss Ophelia marched straight to her own chamber, to put 
away her bonnet and shawl, as was always her manner, before 
she spoke a word on any subject ; while Eva came, at St. 
Clare's call, and was sitting on his knee, giving him an 
account of the services they had heard. 

They soon heard loud exclamations from Miss Ophelia's 
room, which, like the one in which they were sitting, opened 
on to the verandah, and violent reproof addressed to some- 

"What new witchcraft has Tops been brewing?" asked 
St. Clare. "That commotion is of her raising, I'll be 
bound ! " 

And, in a moment after, Miss Ophelia, in high indignation, 
came dragging the culprit along. 

" Come out here, now ! " she said. " I will tell your mas- 
ter ! " 

" What 's the case now ? " asked Augustine. 

" The case is, that I cannot be plagued with this child, any 


longer ! It 's past all bearing ; flesh and blood cannot endure 
it ! Here, I locked her up, and gave her a hymn to study ; 
and what does she do, but spy out where I put my key, and 
has gone to my bureau, and got a bonnet- trimming, and cut 
it all to pieces, to make dolls' jackets ! I never saw anything 
like it, in my life ! " 

" I told you, Cousin," said Marie, "that you'd find out 
that these creatures can't be brought up, without severity. 
If I had my way, now," she said, looking reproachfully at 
St. Clare, " I 'd send that child out, and her thoroughly 
whipped ; I 'd have her whipped till she could n't stand ! " 

"I do^'t doubt it," said St. Clare. "Tell me of the 
lovely rule of woman ! I never saw above a dozen women 
that wouldn't half kill a horse, or a servant, either, if they 
had their own way with them ! — let alone a man." 

"There is no use in this shilly-shally way of yours, St. 
Clare !" said Marie. " Cousin is a woman of sense, and she 
sees it now, as plain as I do." 

Miss Ophelia had just the capability of indignation that 
belongs to the thorough-paced housekeeper, and this had 
been pretty actively roused by the artifice and wastefulness 
of the child ; in fact, many of my lady readers must own that 
they should have felt just so in her circumstances; out 
Marie's words went beyond her, and she felt less heat. 

" I wouldn't have the child treated so, for the world," she 
said; "but, I am sure, Augustine, I don't know what to do. 
I've taught and taught; I've talked till I'm tired; I've 
whipped her I 've punished her in every way I can think of, 
and still she 's just what she was at first." 

" Come here, Tops, you monkey ! " said St. Clare, calling 
the child up to him. 

ropsy came up ; her found, hard eyes glittering and blink- 

92 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

ing with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd 

"What makes you behave so? " said St. Clare, who could 
not help being amused with the child's expression. 

" Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely; 
"Miss Feely says so." 

" Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you? 
She says she has done everything she can think of." 

"Lor, yes, Mas'r! old Missis used to say so, too. She 
whipped me a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and 
knock my head agin the door ; but it did n't do me no good ! 
I spects, if they 's to pull every spear o' har out o' my head, 
it wouldn't do no good, neither, — I's so wicked! Laws! 
I 's nothin but a nigger, no ways ! " 

"Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia; 
" I can't have that trouble any longer." 

"Well, I 'd just like to ask one question," said St Clare. 

"What is it?" 

"Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one 
heathen child, that you can have at home here, all to your- 
self, what's the use of sending one or two poor missionaries 
off with it among thousands of just such ? I suppose this 
child is about a fair sample of what thousands of your heathen 


Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva, 
who had stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a 
silent sign to Topsy to follow her. There was a little glass- 
room at the corner of the verandah, which St. Clare used as 
a sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Topsy disappeared into 
this place. 

"What's Eva going about, now?" said St. Clare; "I 
mean to see." 


And, advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that cov- 
eied the glass-door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his 
finger on his lips, he made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia 
to come and look. There sat the two children on the floor, 
with their side faces towards them. Topsy, with her usual 
air of careless drollery and unconcern ; but, opposite to her, 
Eva, her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her 
large eyes. 

"What does make you so bad, Topsy? Why won't you 
try and be good? Don't you love anybody, Topsy? " 

" Donno nothing 'bout love; I loves candy and sich, that's 
all," said Topsy. 

"But you love your father and mother ? " 

" Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that, Miss Eva." 

"0, I know," said Eva, sadly; "but hadn't you any 
brother, or sister, or aunt, or — " 

" No, none on 'em, — never had nothing nor nobody." 

" But, Topsy, if you 'd only try to be good, you might — " 

" Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger, if I was ever so 
good," said Topsy. "If I could be skinned, and come white, 
I'd try then." 

"But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss 
Ophelia would love you, if you were good." 

Topsy gave the short, blunt laugh that was her common 
mode of expressing incredulity. 
' " Don't you think so? " said Eva. 

" No; she can't bar ne, 'cause I'm a nigger! — she'd 's 
soon have a toad touch her ! There can't nobody love nig- 
gers, and niggers can't do nothin' ! /don't care," said Topsy, 
beginning to whistle. 

"0, Topsy, poor child, / love you! " said Eva, with a 
sudden burst of feeling, and laying her little thin, white 

94 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

hand on Topsy' s shoulder; "I love you, because you haven't 
had any father, or mother, or friends ; — because you 've been 
a poor, abused child ! I love you, and I want you to be good. 
I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I shan't live a great 
while ; and it really grieves me, to have you be so naughty. I 
wish you would try to be good, for my sake; — it's only a 
little while I shall be with you." 

The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with 
tears ; — large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, 
and fell on the little white hand. Yes, in that moment, a 
ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly love, had penetrated the 
darkness of her heathen soul ! She laid her head down 
between her knees, and wept and sobbed, — while the beauti- 
ful child, bending over her, looked like the picture of some 
bright angel stooping to reclaim a sinner. 

" Poor Topsy ! " said Eva, "don't you know that Jesus 
loves all alike ? He is just as willing to love you, as me. 
He loves you just as I do, — only more, because he is better. 
He will help you to be good; and you can go to Heaven at 
last, and be an angel forever, just as much as if you were 
white. Only think of it, Topsy ! — you can be one of those 
spirits bright, Uncle Tom sings about." 

"0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!" said the child; 
"I will try, I will try; I never did care nothin' about it 

St. Clare, at this instant, dropped the curtain. "It puts 
me in mind of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. "It is true 
what she told me ; if we want to give sight to the blind, we 
must be willing to do as Christ did, — call them to us, and 
put our hands on them." 

"I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss 


Ophelia, "and it 's a fact, I never could bear to have that 
thild touch me; but, I didn't think she knew it." 

"Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; 
1 there 's no keeping it from them. But I believe tl at all the 
trying in the world to benefit a child, and all the substantial 
favors you can do them, will never excite one emotion of 
gratitude, while that feeling of repugnance remains in t\c 
heart; — it 's a queer kind of a fact, — but so it is." 

"I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia; 
"they are disagreeable to me, — this child in particular, — 
how can I help feeling so ? " 

" Eva does, it seems." 

" Well, she's so loving ! After all, though, she 's no mor 
than Christ-like," said Miss Ophelia; "I wish I were likd 
her. She might teach me a lesson." 

"It wouldn't be the first time a little child had been used 
to instruct an old disciple, if it xoere so,". said St. Clare. 

96 UNCLE tom's cabin; or, 



Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb, 
In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes. 

Eva's bed-room was a spacious apartment, which, like 
all the. other rooms in the house, opened on to the broad 
verandah. The room communicated, on one side, with her 
father and mother's apartment; on the other, with that appro- 
priated to Miss Ophelia. St. Clare had gratified his own eye 
and taste, in furnishing this room in a style that had a pecu- 
liar keeping with the character of her for whom it was 
intended. The windows were hung with curtains of rose- 
colored and white muslin, the floor was spread with a matting 
which had been ordered in Paris, to a pattern of his own 
device, having round it a border of rose-buds and leaves, and 
a centre-piece with full-blown roses. The bedstead, chairs, 
and lounges, were of bamboo, wrought in peculiarly graceful 
and fanciful patterns. Over the head of the bed was an 
alabaster bracket, on which a beautiful sculptured angel 
stood, with drooping wings, holding out a crown of myrtle- 
leaves. From this depended, over the bed, light curtains of 
rose-colored gauze, striped with silver, supplying that protec- 
tion from mosquitos which is an indispensable addition to all 
sleeping accommodation in that climate. The graceful bam- 
boo lounges were amply supplied with cushions of rose-colored 
damask, while over them, depending from the hands of sculp- 
tured figures, were gauze curtains similar to those of the bed. 


A light, fanciful bamboo table stood in the middle of the 
room, where a Parian vase, wrought in the shape of a white 
lily, with its buds, stood, ever filled with flowers. On this 
table lay Eva's books and little trinkets, with an elegantly 
wrought alabaster writing-stand, which her father had sup- 
plied to her when he saw her trying to improve herself in 
writing. There was a fireplace in the room, and on the 
marble mantle above stood a beautifully wrought statuette of 
Jesus receiving little children, and on either side marble 
vases, for which it was Tom's pride and delight to offer 
bouquets every morning. Two or three exquisite paintings 
of children, in various attitudes, embellished the wall. In 
short, the eye could turn nowhere without meeting images of 
childhood, of beauty, and of peace. Those little eyes never 
opened, in the morning light, without falling on something 
which suggested to the heart soothing and beautiful thoughts. 

The deceitful strength which had buoyed Eva up for a 
little while was fast passing away ; seldom and more seldom 
her light footstep was heard in the verandah, and oftener and 
oftener she was found reclined on a little lounge by the open 
window, her large, deep eyes fixed on the rising and falling 
waters of the lake. 

It was towards the middle of the afternoon, as she was so 
reclining, — her Bible half open, her little transparent fingers 
lying listlessly between the leaves, — suddenly she heard her 
mother's voice, in sharp tones, in the verandah. 

" What now, you baggage ! — what new piece of mischief ! 
You 've been picking the flowers, hey ? " and Eva heard the 
sound of a smart slap. 

" Law, Missis ! — they 's for Miss Eva," she heard a voice 
say, which she knew belonged to Topsy. 

" Miss Eva ! A pretty excuse ! — you suppose she wants 

vol. n. 9 

98 UNCLE TOM'S cabin : Oil, 

your flowers, you good-for-nothing nigger! Get along off with 
you ! " 

In a moment, Eva was off from her lounge, and in the 

" 0, don't, mother ! I should like the flowers ; do give 
them to me ; I want them ! " 

" Why, Eva, your room is full now." 

" I can't have too many," said Eva. " Topsy, do bring 
them here." 

Topsy, who had stood sullenly, holding down her head, 
now came up and offered her flowers. She did it with a look 
of hesitation and bashfulness, quite unlike the eldrich bold- 
ness and brightness which was usual with her. 

" It 's a beautiful bouquet! " said Eva, looking at it. 

It was rather a singular one, — a brilliant scarlet geranium, 
and one single white japonica, with its glossy leaves. It 
was tied up with an evident eye to the contrast of color, and 
the arrangement of every leaf had carefully been studied. 

Topsy looked pleased, as Eva said, — " Topsy, you arrange 
flowers very prettily. Here," she said, " is this vase I 
have n't any flowers for. I wish you 'd arrange something 
every day for it." 

" Well, that 's odd ! " said Marie. " What in the world do 
you want that for ? " 

" Never mind, mamma ; you 'd as lief as not Topsy should 
do it, — had you not ? " 

"Of course, anything you please, dear ! Topsy, you hear 
your young mistress ; — see that you mind." 

Topsy made a short courtesy, and looked down ; and, as 
she turned away, Eva saw a tear roll down her dark cheek. 

" You see, mamma, I knew poor Topsy wanted to do some- 
thing for me," said Eva to her mother. 


" 0, nonsense ! it 's only because she likes to do mischief. 
She knows she mustn't pick flowers, — so she does it; 
that 's all there is to it. But, if you fancy to have her pluck 
them, so be it." 

" Mamma, I think Topsy is different from what she used 
to be ; she's trying to be a good girl." 

" She '11 have to try a good while before she gets to be 
good," said Marie, with a careless laugh. 

"Well, you know, mamma, poor Topsy! everything has 
always been against her." 

"Not since she's been here, I'm sure. If she hasn't 
been talked to, and preached to, and every earthly thing done 
that anybody could do ; — and she 's just so ugly, and always 
will be ; you can't make anything of the creature ! " 

" But, mamma, it 's so different to be brought up as I 've 
been, with so many friends, so many things to make me good 
and happy ; and to be brought up as she 's been, all the time, 
till she came here ! " 

" Most likely," said Marie, yawning, — "dear me, how hot 
it is!" 

" Mamma, you believe, don't you, that Topsy could be- 
come an angel, as well as any of us, if she were a Chris- 

" Topsy ! what a ridiculous idea ! Nobody but you would 
ever think of it. I suppose she could, though." 

"But, mamma, isn't God her father, as much as ours'? 
Is n't Jesus her Saviour ?" 

"Well, that may be. I suppose God made everybody," 
said Marie. " Where is my smelling-bottle? " 

" It 's such a pity, — oh ! such a pity ! " said Eva, looking 
out on the distant lake, and speaking half to herself. 

"What 's a pity ? " said Marie. 


"Why, that any one, who could be a bright angel, and live 
with angels, should go all down, clown, down, and nobody help 
them ! — oh, dear ! " 

" Well, we can't help it ; it 's no use worrying, Eva ! I 
don't know what 's to be done ; we ought to be thankful for 
our own advantages." 

" I hardly can be," said Eva," I 'm so sorry to think of 
poor folks that have n't any." 

"That's odd enough," said Marie; — "I'm sure my 
religion makes me thankful for my advantages." 

" Mamma," said Eva, " I want to have some of my hair 
cut off, — a good deal of it." 

"What for?" said Marie. 

" Mamma, I want to give some away to my friends, while 
I am able to give it to them myself. Won't you ask aunty 
to come and cut it for me?" 

Marie raised her voice, and called Miss Ophelia, from the 
other room. 

The child half rose from her pillow as she came in, and, 
shaking down her long golden-brown curls, said, rather play- 
fully, " Come, aunty, shear the sheep ! " 

"What's that?" said St. Clare, who just then entered 
with some fruit he had been out to get for her. 

" Papa, I just want aunty to cut off some of my hair ; — 
there 's too much of it, and it makes my head hot. Besides, I 
want to give some of it away." 

Miss Ophelia came, with her scissors. 

" Take care, — don't spoil the looks of it ! " said her father; 
" cut underneath, where it won't show. Eva's curls are my 

" 0, papa ! " said Eva, sadly. 

" Yes, and I want them kept handsome against the time I 


take you up to your uncle's plantation, to see Cousin Hen- 
rique," said St. Clare, in a gay tone. 

" I shall never go there, papa ; — I am going to a better 
country. 0, do believe me ! Don't you see, papa, that I 
get weaker, every day? " 

" Why do you insist that I shall believe such a cruel thing, 
Eva ? " said her father. 

" Only because it is true, papa: and, if you will believe it 
now, perhaps you will get to feel about it as I do." 

St. Clare closed his lips, and stood gloomily eying the 
long, beautiful curls, which, as they were separated from the 
child's head, were laid, one by one, in her lap. She raised 
them up, looked earnestly at them, twined them around her 
thin fingers, and looked, from time to time, anxiously at her 

" It 's just what I 've been foreboding ! " said Marie ; " it 's 
just what has been preying on my health, from day to day, 
bringing me downward to the grave, though nobody regards 
it. I have seen this, long. St. Clare, you will see, after a 
while, that I was right." 

" Which will afford you great consolation, no doubt ! " said 
St. Clare, in a dry, bitter tone. 

Marie lay back on a lounge, and covered her face with her 
cambric handkerchief. 

Eva's clear blue eye looked earnestly from one to the 
other. It was the calm, comprehending gaze of a soul half 
loosed from its earthly bonds ; it was evident she saw, felt, 
and appreciated, the difference between the two. 

She beckoned with her hand to her father. He came, and 
sat down by her. 

" Papa, my strength fades away every day, and I know I 
must go. There are some things I want to say and do, — 

VOL. II. 9* 

102 UNCLE tom's cabin : OR, 

that -I ought to do; and you are so unwilling to have klo 
speak a word on this subject. But it must come; there's 
no putting it off. Do be willing I should speak now ! " 

"My child, I am willing!" said St. Clare, covering his 
eyes with one hand, and holding up Eva's hand with the 

'•Then, I want to see all our people together. I have 
some things I must say to them," said Eva. 

" Welly 1 said St. Clare, in a tone of dry endurance. 

Miss Ophelia despatched a messenger, and soon the whole 
of the servants were convened in the room. 

Eva lay back on her pillows ; her hair hanging loosely 
about her face, her crimson cheeks contrasting painfully 
with the intense whiteness of her complexion and the thin 
contour of her limbs and features, and her large, soul-like 
eyes fixed earnestly on every one. 

The servants were struck with a sudden emotion. The 
spiritual face, the long locks of hair cut off and lying by 
her, her father's averted face, and Marie's sobs, struck at 
once upon the feelings of a sensitive and impressible race ; 
and, as they came in, they looked one on another, sighed, and 
shook their heads. There was a deep silence, like that of a 

Eva raised herself, and looked long and earnestly round at 
every one. All looked sad and apprehensive. Many of the 
women hid their faces in their aprons. 

" I sent for you all, my dear friends," said Eva, "because 
I love you. I love you all ; and I have something to say to 

you, which I want you always to remember I am 

going to leave you. In a few more weeks, you will see me 
no more — " 


Here the child was interrupted by bursts of groans, sobs, 
and lamentations, which broke from all present, and in which 
her slender voice was lost entirely. She waited a moment, 
and then, speaking in a tone that checked the sobs of all, she 

'• If you love me, you must not interrupt me so. Listen 
to what I say. I want to speak to you about your souls. 

Many of you, I am afraid, are very careless. You 

are thinking only about this world. I want you to remember 
that there is a beautiful world, where Jesus is. I am going 
there, and you can go there. It is for you, as much as me. 
But, if you want to go there, you must not live idle, care- 
less, thoughtless lives. You must be Christians. You must 
remember that each one of you can become angels, and be 

angels forever If you want to be Christians, Jesus 

will help you. You must pray to him; you must read — " 

The child checked herself, looked piteously at them, and 
said, sorrowfully, 

" 0, dear ! you carCt read, — poor souls ! " and she hid her 
face in the pillow and sobbed, while many a smothered sob 
from those she was addressing, who were kneeling on the 
floor, aroused her. 

"Never mind," she said, raising her face and smiling 
brightly through her tears, " I have prayed for you ; and I 
know Jesus will help you, even if you can't read. Try all to 
do the best you can ; pray every day ; ask Him to help you, 
and get the Bible read to you whenever you can; and I think 
I shall see you all in heaven." 

"Amen," was the murmured response from the lips of Tom 
and Mammy, and some of the elder ones, who belonged to the 
Methodist church. The younger and more thoughtless ones, 

104 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

for the time completely overcome, were sobbing, with their 
heads bowed upon their knees. 

" I know," said Eva, " you all love me." 

" Yes ; oh, yes ! indeed we do ! Lord bless her ! " was the 
involuntary answer of all. 

"Yes, I know you do! There isn't one of you that 
has n't always been very kind to me ; and I want to give 
you something that, when you look at, you shall always 
remember me. I 'm going to give all of you a curl of my 
hair ; and, when you look at it, think that I loved you and am 
gone to heaven, and that I want to see you all there." 

It is impossible to describe the scene, as, with tears and 
sobs, they gathered round the little creature, and took from 
her hands what seemed to them a last mark of her love. 
They fell on their knees ; they sobbed, and prayed, and kissed 
the hem of her garment ; and the elder ones poured forth 
words of endearment, mingled in prayers and blessings, after 
the manner of their susceptible race. 

As each one took their gift, Miss Ophelia, who was appre- 
hensive for the effect of all this excitement on her little patient, 
signed to each one to pass out of the apartment. 

At last, all were gone but Tom and Mammy. 

"Here, Uncle Tom," said Eva, "is a beautiful one for 
you. 0, I am so happy, Uncle Tom, to think I shall see 
you in heaven, — for I'm sure I shall; and Mammy, — dear, 
good, kind Mammy!" she said, fondly throwing her arms 
round her old nurse, — " I know you '11 be there, too." 

"0, Miss Eva, don't see how I can live without ye, no 
how!" said the faithful creature. "'Pears like it's just 
taking everything off the place to oncet ! " and Mammy gave 
way to a passion of grief. 

Miss Ophelia pushed her and Tom gently from the 


apartment, and thought they were all gone; but, as she 
turned, Topsy was standing there. 

"Where did you start up from?" she said, suddenly. 

" I was here," said Topsy, wiping the tears from her eyes. 
" 0, Miss Eva, I've been a bad girl; but won't you give 
me one, too? " 

"Yes, poor Topsy! to be sure, I will. There. — every 
time you look at that, think that I love you, and wanted you 
to be a good girl ! " 

" 0, Miss Eva, I is tryin ! " said Topsy, earnestly ; " but, 
Lor, it 's so hard to be good ! Tears like I an't used to it, 
no ways ! " 

" Jesus knows it, Topsy ; he is sorry for you ; he will help 

Topsy, with her eyes hid in her apron, was silently passed 
from the apartment by Miss Ophelia; but, as she went, she 
hid the precious curl in her bosom. 

All being gone, Miss Ophelia shut the door. That worthy 
lady had wiped away many tears of her own, during the scene ; 
but concern for the consequence of such an excitement to her 
young charge was uppermost in her mind. 

St. Clare had been sitting, during the whole time, with his 
hand shading his eyes, in the same attitude. When they 
were all gone, he sat so still. 

" Papa ! " said Eva, gently, laying her hand on his. 

He gave a sudden start and shiver ; but made no answer. 

" Dear papa ! " said Eva. 

"I cannot" said St. Clare, rising, "I cannot have it so ' 
The Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me!" and St. 
Clare pronounced these words with a bitter emphasis, indeed. 

" Augustine ! has not God a right to do what he will with 
his own?" said Miss Ophelia. 

108 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

" Perhaps so ; but that doesn't make it any easier to bear," 
said he, with a dry, hard, tearless manner, as he turned 

" Papa, you break my heart!" said Eva, rising and 
throwing herself into his arms ; " you must not feel so ! " and 
the child sobbed and wept with a violence which alarmed 
them all and turned her father's thoughts at once to another 

" There, Eva, — there, dearest! Hush! hush! I was 
wrong; I was wicked. I will feel any way, do any way, — 
only don't distress yourself; don't sob so. I will be resigned; 
I was wicked to speak as I did." 

Eva soon lay like a wearied dove in her father's arms ; and 
he, bending over her, soothed her by every tender word he 
could think of. 

Marie rose and threw herself out of the apartment into her 
own, when she fell into violent hysterics. 

"You didn't give me a curl, Eva," said her father, smil- 
ing sadly. 

"They are all yours, papa," said she, smiling, — "yours 
and mamma's ; and you must give dear aunty as many as she 
wants. I only gave them to our poor people myself, because 
you know, papa, they might be forgotten when I am gone, 

and because I hoped it might help them remember 

You are a Christian, are you not, papa? " said Eva, doubt- 

" Why do you ask me ? " 

"I don't know. You are so good, I don't see how you 
can help it." 

" What is being a Christian, Eva?" 

"Loving Christ most of all," said Eva. 

•'Do you, Eva?" 


"Certainly I do." 

"You never saw him," said St. Clare. 

"That makes no difference," said Eva. " I believe him, 
and in a few days I shall see him ; " and the young face grew 
fervent, radiant with joy. 

St. Clare said no more. It was a feeling which he had seen 
before in his mother ; but no chord within vibrated to it. 

Eva, after this, declined rapidly; there was no more any 
doubt of the event ; the fondest hope could not be blinded. 
Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick room ; and Miss 
Ophelia day and night performed the duties of a nurse, — and 
never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that 
capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect 
adroitness and practice in every art which could promote 
neatness and comfort, and keep out of sight every disagree- 
able incident of sickness, — with such a perfect sense of time, 
such a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in re- 
membering every prescription and direction of the doctors, — 
she was everything to him. They who had shrugged their 
shoulders at her little peculiarities and setnesses, so unlike 
the careless freedom of southern manners, acknowledged that 
now she was the exact person that was wanted. 

Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered 
much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to 
be carried ; and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her lit- 
tle frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and 
down her room, now out into the verandah ; and when the 
fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake, — and the child felt 
freshest in the morning, — he would sometimes walk with her 
under the orange-trees in the garden, or, sitting down in 
some of their old seats, sing to her their favorite old hymns. 


Her father often did the same thing ; but his frame was 
slighter, and when he was weary, Eva would say to him, 

" 0, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow ! it pleases him ; 
and you know it 's all he can do now, and he wants to do 
something ! " 

" So do I, Eva ! " said her father. 

"Well, papa, you can do everything, and are "everything 
to me. You read to me, — you sit up nights, — and Tom has 
only this one thing, and his singing ; and I know, „ too, he 
does it easier than you can. He carries me so strong ! " 

The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. 
Every servant in the establishment showed the same feeling, 
and in their way did what they could. 

Poor Mammy's heart yearned towards her darling; but she 
found no opportunity, night or day, as Marie declared that 
the state of her mind was such, it was impossible for her to 
rest ; and, of course, it was against her principles to let any 
one else rest. Twenty times in a night, Mammy would be 
roused to rub her feet, to bathe her head, to find her pocket- 
handkerchief, to see what the noise was in Eva's room, to 
let down a curtain because it was too light, or to put it up 
because it was too dark; and, in the day-time, when she 
longed to have some share in the nursing of her pet, Marie 
seemed unusually ingenious in keeping her busy anywhere 
and everywhere all over the house, or about her own person ; 
so that stolen interviews and momentary glimpses were all 
she could obtain. 

"I feel it my duty to be particularly careful of myself, 
now," she would say, " feeble as I am, and with the whole 
care and nursing of that dear child upon me." 

"Indeed, my dear," said St. Clar^, "I thought our cousin 
relieved you of that." 


"You talk like a man, St. Clare, — just as if a mother 
could be relieved of the care of a child in that state ; but, 
then, it 's all alike, — no one ever knows what I feel ! I can't 
throw things off, as you do." 

St. Clare smiled. You must excuse him, he couldn't 
help it, — for St. Clare could smile yet. For so bright and 
placid was the farewell voyage of the little spirit, — by such 
sweet and fragrant breezes was the small bark borne towards 
the heavenly shores, — that it was impossible to realize that it 
was death that was approaching. The child felt no pain, — 
only a tranquil, soft weakness, daily and almost insensibly 
increasing ; and she was so beautiful, so loving, so trustful, so 
happy, that one could not resist the soothing influence of 
that air of innocence and peace whjph seemed to breathe 
around her. St. Clare found a strange calm coming over him. 
It was not hope, — that was impossible; it was not resigna- 
tion ; it was only a calm resting in the present, which seemed 
so beautiful that he wished to think of no future. It was 
like that hush of spirit which we feel amid the bright, mild 
woods of autumn, when the bright hectic flush is on the trees, 
and the last lingering flowers by the brook ; and we joy in it 
all the more, because we know that soon it will all pass away. 

The friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and 
foreshadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. To him she 
said what she would not disturb her father by saying. To 
him she imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul 
feels, as the cords begin to unbind, ere it leaves its clay for- 

Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night 
m the outer verandah, ready to rouse at every call. 

" Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping any- 
where and everywhere, like a dog, for?" said Miss Ophelia. 

vol. ii. 10 


"I thought you was one of the orderly sort, that liked to lie 
in bed in a Christian way." 

"I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. "I do, but 
now — " 

"Well, what now?" 

"We mustn't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clare won't hear 
on't; but Miss Feely, you know there must be somebody 
watchin' for the bridegroom." 

" What do you mean, Tom? " 

"You know it says in Scripture, i At midnight there was 
a great cry made. Behold, the bridegroom cometh.' That 's 
what I'm spectin now, every night, Miss Feely, — and I 
couldn't sleep out o' hearin, no ways." 

" Why, Uncle Tom , # what makes you think so ? " 

"Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, he sends his 
messenger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for 
when that ar blessed child goes into the kingdom, they'll 
open the door so wide, we '11 all get a look in at the glory, 
Miss Feely." 

" Uncle Tom, did Miss Eva say she felt more unwell than 
usual to-night?" 

"No; but she telled me, this morning, she was coming 
nearer, — thar's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely, 
It 's the angels, — ' it 's the trumpet sound afore the break o' 
day,' " said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn. 

This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, 
between ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements 
had all been made for the night, when, on going to bolt her 
outer door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer 

She was not nervous or impressible ; but the solemn, heart- 
felt manner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and 


cheerful, that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and 
looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, and 
designated the friends to whom she would have them given ; 
and her manner was more animated, and her voice more nat- 
ural, than they had known it for weeks. Her father had 
been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more 
like her former self than ever she had done since her sick- 
ness ; and when he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss 
Ophelia, — " Cousin, we may keep her with us, after all; she 
is certainly better;" and he had retired with a lighter heart 
in his bosom than he had had there for weeks. 

But at midnight, — strange, mystic hour ! — when the veil 
between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin, — 
then came the messenger ! 

There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who 
stepped quickly. It was Miss Ophelia, who had resolved to 
sit up all night with her little charge, and who, at the turn of 
the night, had discerned what experienced nurses significantly 
call "a change." The outer door was quickly opened, and 
Tom, who was watching outside, was on the alert, in a 

" Go for the doctor, Tom ! lose not a moment," said Miss 
Ophelia; and, stepping across the room, she rapped at St. 
Clare's door. 

" Cousin," she said, " I wish you would come." 

Those words fell on his heart like clods upon a coffin. Why 
did they? He was up and in the room in an instant, and 
bending over Eva, who still slept. 

What was it he saw that made his heart stand still 1 Why 
was no word spoken between the two ? Thou canst say, who 
hast seen that same expression on the face dearest to thee; — 


that look indescribable, hopeless, unmistakable, that says to 
thee that thy beloved is no longer thine. 

On the face of the child, however, there was no ghastly 
imprint, — only a high and almost sublime expression, — the 
overshadowing presence of spiritual natures, the dawning of 
immortal life in that childish soul. 

They stood there so still, gazing upon her, that even the 
ticking of the watch seemed too loud. In a few moments, 
Tom returned, with the doctor. He entered, gave one look, 
and stood silent as the rest. 

"When did this change take place?" said he, in a low 
whisper, to Miss Ophelia. 

"About the turn of the night," was the reply. 

Marie, roused by fhe entrance of the doctor, appeared, 
hurriedly, from the next room. 

u Augustine ! Cousin ! — ! — what ! " she hurriedly be- 

" Hush ! " said St. Clare, hoarsely ; " she is dying ! " 

Mammy heard the words, and flew to awaken the servants. 
The house was soon roused, — lights were seen, footsteps 
heard, anxious faces thronged the verandah, and looked tear- 
fully through the glass doors ; but St. Clare heard and said 
nothing, — he saw only that look on the face of the little 

"0, if she would only wake, and speak once more ! " h* 
said; and, stooping over her, he spoke in her ear, — "Eva, 
darling! " 

The large blue eyes unclosed, — a smile passed over hei 
face ; — she tried to raise her head, and to speak. 

" Do you know me, Eva? " 

"Dear papa," said the child, with a last effort, throwing 
her arms about his neck. In a moment they dropped again ■ 


and, as St. Clare raised his head, he saw a spasm of mortal 
agony pass over the face, — she struggled for breath, and 
threw up her little hands. 

" 0, God, this is dreadful ! " he said, turning away in agony, 
and wringing Tom's hand, scarce conscious what he was 
doing. "0, Tom, my boy, it is killing me!" 

Tom had his master's hands between his own; and, with 
tears streaming down his dark cheeks, looked up for help 
where he had always been used to look. 

"Pray that this may be cut short!" said St. Clare, — 
"this wrings my heart." 

11 0, bless the Lord ! it's over, — it 's over, dear Master ! " 
said Tom ; " look at her." 

The child lay panting on her pillows, as one exhausted, — 
the large clear eyes rolled up and fixed. Ah, what said 
those eyes, that spoke so much of heaven ? Earth was past, 
and earthly pain; but so solemn, so mysterious, was the 
triumphant brightness of that face, that it checked even the 
sobs of sorrow. They pressed around her, in breathless still- 

" Eva," said St. Clare, gently. 

She did not hear. 

"0, Eva, tell us what you see! What is it?" said her 

A bright, a glorious smile passed over her face, and she 
said, brokenly, — " ! love, — joy, — peace ! " gave one sigh, 
and passed from death unto life ! 

"Farewell, beloved child! the bright, eternal doors have 
closed after thee ; we shall see thy sweet face no more. 0, 
woe for them who watched thy entrance into heaven, when 
they shall wake and find only the cold gray sky of daily life, 
and thou gone forever! " 

VOL. II. 10* 

1 14 UNCLE tom's cabin : OR, 



The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded 
in white napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled 
foot-falls were heard there, and the light stole in solemnly 
through windows partially darkened by closed blinds. 

The bed was draped in white ; and there, beneath the 
drooping angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form, — sleeping 
never to waken ! 

There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she 
had been wont to wear when living ; the rose-colored light 
through the curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a 
warm glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure 
cheek ; the head was turned a little to one side, as if in 
natural sleep, but there was diffused over every lineament of 
the face that high celestial expression, that mingling of rap- 
ture and repose, which showed it was no earthly or temporary 
sleep, but the long, sacred rest which " He giveth to his 

There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva ! neither dark- 
ness nor shadow of death ; only such a bright fading as when 
the morning star fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the 
victory without the battle, — the crown without the conflict. 

So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there 
gazing. Ah ! who shall say what he did think ? for, from 
the hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, " she is 


gone," it had been all a dreary mist, a heavy " dimness of 
anguish." He had heard voices around him ; he had had 
questions asked, and answered them ; they had asked him 
"when he would have the funeral, and where they should lay 
her ; and h3 had answered, impatiently, that he cared not. 

Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber ; volatile, 
fickle and childish, as they generally were, they were soft- 
hearted and full of feeling ; and, while Miss Ophelia presided 
over the general details of order and neatness, it was their 
hands that added those soft, poetic touches to the arrange- 
ments, that took from the death-room the grim and ghastly 
air which too often marks a New England funeral. 

There were still flowers on the shelves, — all white, deli- 
cate and fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's 
little table, covered with white, bore on it her favorite vase, 
with a single white moss rose-bud in it. The folds of the 
drapery, the fall of the curtains, had been arranged and 
rearranged, by Adolph and Rosa, with that nicety of eye 
which characterizes their race. Even now, while St. Clare 
stood there thinking, little Rosa tripped softly into the cham- 
ber with a basket of white flowers. She stepped back when 
she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully ; but, seeing that 
he did not observe her, she came forward to place them 
around the dead. St. Clare saw her as in a dream, while she 
placed in the small hands a fair cape jessamine, and, with 
admirable taste, disposed other flowers around the couch. 

The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with 
crying, appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa 
made a quick, forbidding gesture ; but she took a step into the 

" You must go out," said Rosa, in a sharp, positive 
whisper ; " you have n't any business here ! " 


" 0, do let me ! I brought a flower, — such a pretty one ! " 
said Tops y, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud. "Do let 
me put just one there," 

" Get along ! " said Rosa, more decidedly. 

" Let her stay ! " said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his 
foot. " She shall come." 

Rosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid 
her offering at the feet of the corpse ; then suddenly, with a 
wild and bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside 
the bed, and wept, and moaned aloud. 

Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and 
silence her ; but in vain. 

" 0, Miss Eva ! oh, Miss Eva ! I wish I 's dead, too,— I 

There was a piercing wildness in the cry ; the blood 
flushed into St. Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first 
tears he had shed since Eva died stood in his eyes. 

" Get up, child," said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice; 
"don't cry so. Miss Eva is gone to heaven; she is an 

" But I can't see her ! " said Topsy. " I never shall see 
her ! " and she sobbed again. 

They all stood a moment in silence. 

" She said she loved me," said Topsy, — "she did ! 0, 
dear ! oh. dear ! there an't nobody left now, — there an't ! " 

"That's true enough," said St. Clare; "but do," he 
said to Miss Ophelia, "see if you can't comfort the poor 

" I jifit wish I had n't never been born." said Topsy. c ' I 
did n't want to be born, no ways ; and I don't see no use 

Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her 


from the room ; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her 

" Topsy, you poor child," she said, as she led her into her 
room, " don't give up ! i" can love you, though I am not like 
that dear little child. I hope I 've learnt something of the 
love of Christ from her. I can love you ; I do, and I '11 try 
to help you to grow up a good Christian girl." 

Miss Ophelia's voice was more than her words, and more 
than that were the honest tears that fell down her face* 
From that hour, she acquired an influence over the mind of 
the destitute child that she never lost. 

" 0, my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much of 
good," thought St. Clare, "what account have I to give for 
my long years ? " 

There were, for a while, soft whisperings and foot-falls in 
the chamber, as one after another stole in, to look at the 
dead; and then came the little coffin; and then there was a 
funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and strangers came 
and were seated ; and there were white scarfs and ribbons, 
and crape bands, and mourners dressed in black crape ; and 
there were words read from the Bible, and prayers offered ; 
and St. Clare lived, and walked, and moved, as one who has 
shed every tear; — to the last he saw only one thing, that 
golden head in the coffin ; but then he saw the cloth spread 
over it, the lid of the coffin closed ; and he walked, when he 
was put beside the others, down to a little place at the bottom 
of the garden, and there, by the mossy seat where she and 
Tom had talked, and sung, and read so often, was the little 
grave. St. Clare stood beside it, — looked vacantly down* 
he saw them lower the little coffin ; he heard, dimly, the 
solemn words, " I am the resurrection and the Life ; he that 
belie v 3th in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; " 


and, as the earth was cast in and filled up the little grave, he 
could not realize that it was his Eva that they were hiding 
from his sight. 

Nor was it ! — not Eva, but only the frail seed of that 
bright, immortal form with which she shall yet come forth, in 
the day of the Lord Jesus ! 

And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to 
the place which should know her no more ; and Marie's room 
was darkened, and she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning 
in uncontrollable grief, and calling every moment for the 
attentions of all her servants. Of course, they had no time 
to cry, — why should they 1 the grief was her grief, and she 
was fully convinced that nobody on earth did, could, or would 
feel it as she did. 

" St. Clare did not shed a tear," she said; "he didn't 
sympathize with her ; it was perfectly wonderful to think how 
hard-hearted and unfeeling he was, when he must know how 
she suffered." 

So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many 
of the servants really thought that Missis was the principal 
sufferer in the case, especially as Marie began to have hyster- 
ical spasms, and sent for the doctor, and at last declared her- 
self dying ; and, in the running and scampering, and bringing 
up hot bottles, and heating of flannels, and chafing, and fuss- 
ing, that ensued, there was quite a diversion. 

Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew 
him to his master. He followed him wherever he walked, 
wistfully and sadly ; and when he saw him sitting, so pale and 
quiet, in Eva's room, holding before his eyes her little open 
Bible, though seeing no letter or word of what was in it, there 
was more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed, tearless eye, than 
m all Marie's moans and lamentations. 


In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the 
city ; Augustine, with the restlessness of grief, longing for 
another scene, to change the current of his thoughts. So 
they left the house and garden, with its little grave, and 
came back to New Orleans ; and St. Clare walked the streets 
busily, and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart with 
hurry and bustle, and change of place ; and people who saw 
him in the street, or met him at the cafe, knew of his loss 
only by the weed on his hat ; for there he was, smiling and 
talking, and reading the newspaper, and speculating on 
politics, and attending to business matters ; and who could 
see that all this smiling outside was but a hollow shell over 
a heart that was a dark and silent sepulchre 1 

" Mr. St. Clare is a singular man," said Marie to Miss 
Ophelia, in a complaining tone. "I used to think, if there 
was anything in the world he did love, it was our dear little 
Eva ; but he seems to be forgetting her very easily. I can- 
not ever get him to talk about her. I really did think he 
would show more feeling ! " 

" Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me," said Miss 
Ophelia, oracularly. 

" 0, I don't believe in such things; it's all talk. If peo- 
ple have feeling, they will show it, — they can't help it ; but, 
then, it 's a great misfortune to have feeling. I 'd rather 
have been made like St. Clare. My feelings prey upon me 

" Sure, Missis, Mas'r St. Clare is gettin' thin as a shader. 
They say, he don't never eat nothin'," said Mammy, 
know he don't forget Miss Eva; I know there couldn't 
nobody, — dear, little, blessed cretur ! " she added, wifing her 

i( Y(qI\, at all events, he has no consideration for me," said 


Marie; "he hasn't spoken one word of sympathy, and ho 
must know how much more a mother feels than any man 

" The heart knoweth its own bitterness," said Miss Ophelia, 

" That 's just what I think. I know just what I feel, — 
nobody else seems to. Eva used to, but she is gone ! " and 
Marie lay back on her lounge, and began to sob disconsolately. 

Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals, 
in whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value 
which it never had in possession. Whatever she had, she 
seemed to survey only to pick flaws in it ; but, once fairly 
away, there was no end to her valuation of it. 

While this conversation was taking place in the parlor, 
another was going on in St. Clare's library. 

Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about, 
had seen him go to his library, some hours before ; and, after 
vainly waiting for him to come out, determined, at last, to 
make an errand in. He entered softly. St. Clare lay on 
his lounge, at the further end of the room. He was lying on 
his face, with Eva's Bible open before him, at a little distance. 
Tom walked up, and stood by the sofa. He hesitated ; and, 
while he was hesitating, St. Clare suddenly raised himself up. 
The honest face, so full of grief, and with such an imploring 
expression of affection and sympathy, struck his master. 
He laid his hand on Tom's, and bowed down his forehead 
on it. 

"0, Tom, my boy, the whole world is as empty as an egg- 

"I know it, Mas'r, — I know it," said Tom; "but, oh, if 
Mas'r could only look up, — up where our dear Miss Eva is, 
— up to the dear Lord Jesus ! " 


" All, Tom! I do look up; but the trouble is, I don't see 
anything, when I do. I wish I could." 

Tom sighed heavily. 

" It seems to be given to children, and poor, honest fellows, 
like you, to see what we can't," said St. Clare. " How 
comes it? " 

" Thou hast l hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed 
unto babes,'" murmured Tom; "'even so, Father, for so 
<t seemed good in thy sight.' " 

"Tom, I don't believe, — I can't believe, — I 've got the 
\abit 01 doubting," said St. Clare. "I want to believe this 
Bible. — and I can't." 

" Dear Mas'r, pray to the good Lord, — 'Lord, I believe ; 
aelp thou my unbelief.' " 

"Who knows anything about anything?" said St. Clare, 
his eyes wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. " Was 
all that beautiful love and faith only one of the ever-shifting 
phases of human feeling, having nothing real to rest on, pass- 
ing away with the little breath ? And is there no more Eva, 
— no heaven, — ncr Christ, — nothing ? " 

"0, dear Mas'r, there is ! I know it ; I 'm sure of it," 
said Tom, falling on his knees. " Do, do, dear Mas'r, 
believe it ! " 

"How do you know there's any Christ, Tom? You 
never saw the Lord." 

" Felt Him in my soul, Mas'r, — feel Him now ! 0, Mas'r, 
when I was sold away from my old woman and the children, 
I was jest a' most broke up. I felt as if there warn't nothin' 
left ; and then the good Lord, he stood by me, and he says, 
' Fear not, Tom ; ' and he brings light aiid joy into a poor 
feller's soul, — makes all peace ; and I s so happy, and loves 
everybody, and feels willin' jest to be the Lord's, and have 

VOL. II. 11 



the Lord's will done, and be put jest where the Lord wants 
to put me. I know it could n't come from me, cause I 's a 
poor, complainin' cretur; it comes from the Lord; and 1 
know He's willin' to do for Mas'r." 

Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St 
Clare leaned his head on his shoulder, and wrung the hard, 
faithful, black hand. 

"Tom, you love me," he said. 

" I 's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, to se* 4 
Mas'r a Christian." 

" Poor, foolish boy ! " said St. Clare, half-raising himself. 
" I 'm not worth the love of one good, honest heart, like 

" 0, Mas'r, dere 's more than me loves you, — the blessed 
Lord Jesus loves you." 

" How do you know that, Tom? " said St. Clare. 

" Feels it in my soul. 0, Mas'r ! ' the love of Christ, that 
passeth knowledge.' " 

"Singular!" said St. Clare, turning away, "that the 
story of a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years 
ago can affect people so yet. But he was no man," he 
added, suddenly. "No ma a 'ever had such long and living 
power ! 0, that I could f Jieve what my mother taught me, 
and pray as I did when I was a boy ! " 

" If Mas'r pleases," jaid Tom, " Miss Eva used to read this 
so beautifully. I wish Mas'r 'd be so good as read it. Don't 
get no readin', hardl , now Miss Eva 's gone." 

The chapter was the eleventh of John, — the touching 
account of the raising of Lazarus. St. Clare read it aloud, 
often pausing tc wrestle down feelings which were roused by 
the pathos of the story. Tom knelt before him, with clasped 


1 ■ ■ ' * 

hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, trust, adora- 
tion, on his quiet face. 

" Tom," said his Master, " this is all real to you ! n 

tl I can jest fairly see it, Mas'r," said Tom. 

" I wish I had your eyes, Tom." 

u I wish, to the dear Lord, Mas'r had ! " 

{ But, Tom, you know that I have a great deal more 
knowledge than you ; what if I should tell you that I don't 
believe this Bible ? " 

" 0, Mas'r !" said Tom, holding up his hands, with a 
deprecating gesture. 

" Would n't it shake your faith some, Tom ? " 

" Not a grain," said Tom. 

" Why, Tom, you must know I know the most." 

" 0, Mas'r, haven't you jest read how he hides from the 
wise and prudent, and reveals unto babes? But Mas'r 
was n't in earnest, for sartin, now? " said Tom, anxiously. 

" No, Tom, I was not. I don't disbelieve, and I think 
there is reason to believe ; and still I don't. It 's a trouble- 
some bad habit I've got, Tom." 

" If Mas'r would only pray ! " 

" How do you know I don't, Tom? " 

"Does Mas'r?" 

"I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when I pray ; 
but it 's all speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come, 
Tom, you pray, now, and show me how." 

Tom's heart was full ; he poured it out in prayer, like 
w 7 aters that have been long suppressed. One thing was plain 
enough ; Tom thought there w T as somebody to hear, whether 
there were or not. In fact, St. Clare felt himself borne, on 
the tide of his faith and feeling, almost to the gates of that 


heaven he seemed so vividly to conceive. It seemed to bring 
him nearer to Eva. 

"Thank you, my boy," said St. Clare, when Tom rose. 
" I like to hear you, Tom ; but go, now, and leave me alone 
some other time, I '11 talk more." 

Tom silently left the room. 



Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and 
the waves of life settled back to their usual flow, where that 
little bark had gone down. For how imperiously, how coolly, 
in disregard of all one's feeling, does the hard, cold, uninter- 
esting course of daily realities move on ! Still must we eat, 
and drink, and sleep, and wake again, — still bargain, buy, 
sell, ask and answer questions, — pursue, in short, a thousand 
shadows, though all interest in them be over ; the cold me- 
chanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it 
has fled. 

All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had uncon- 
sciously wound themselves around this child. It was for 
Eva that he had managed his property ; it was for Eva that 
he had planned the disposal of his time ; and, to do this and 
that for Eva, — to buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dis- 
pose something for her, — had been so long his habit, that 
now she was gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, 
and nothing to be done. 

True, there was another life, — a life which, once believed 
m, stands as a solemn, significant figure before the otherwise 


unmeaning ciphers of time, changing them to orders of 
mysterious, untold value. St. Clare knew this well; and 
often, in mpuy a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish 
voice calling him to the skies, and saw that little hand point- 
ing to him the way of life ; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow 
lay on him, — he could not arise. He had one of those 
natures which could better and more clearly conceive of reli- 
gious things from its own perceptions and instincts, than 
many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian. The gift to 
appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades and relations 
of moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole 
life shows a careless disregard of them. Hence Moore, 
Byron, Goethe, often speak words more wisely descriptive of 
the true religious sentiment, than another man, whose whole 
life is governed by it. In such minds, disregard of religion 
is a more fearful treason, — a more deadly sin. 

St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any 
religious obligation ; and a certain fineness of nature gave him 
such an instinctive view of the extent of the requirements of 
Christianity, that he shrank, by anticipation, from what he felt 
would be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did 
resolve to assume them. For, so inconsistent is human nature, 
especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all 
seems better than to undertake and come short. 

Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He 
read his little Eva's Bible seriously and honestly ; he thought 
more soberly and practically of his relations to his servants, 
— enough to make him extremely dissatisfied with both his 
past and present course ; and one thing he did, soon after his 
return to New Orleans, and that was to commence the legal 
steps necessary to Tom's emancipation, which was to be per- 
fected as soon as he could get through the necessary fornv» i; - 

VOL. II. 11* 


ties. Meantime, he attached himself to Tom more and more, 
every day. In all the wide world, there was nothing that 
seemed to remind him so much of Eva ; and he would insist 
on keeping him constantly about him, and, fastidious and 
unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feelings, 
he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would any one have 
wondered at it, who had seen the expression of affection and 
devotion with which Tom continually followed his young 

"Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had com- 
menced the legal formalities for his enfranchisement, "I'm 
going to make a free man of you ; — so, have your trunk 
packed, and get ready to set out for Kentuck." 

The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he 
raised his hands to heaven, his emphatic " Bless the Lord ! " 
rather discomposed St. Clare ; he did not like it that Tom 
should be so ready to leave him. 

"You haven't had such very bad times here, that you 
need be in such a rapture, Tom," he said, drily. 

"No, no, Mas'r ! 'tan't that, — it's bein' a free man I 
That 's what I 'm joy in' for." 

"Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you've 
been better off than to be free ? " 

" No, indeed, Mas'r St. Clare," said Tom, with a flash of 
energy. " No, indeed ! " 

"Why, Tom, you couldn't possibly have earned, by your 
work, such clothes and such living as I have given you." 

" Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare; Mas'r 's been too good ; 
but, Mas'r, I 'd rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor 
everything, and have 'em mine, than have the best, and have 
'em any man's else, — I had so, Mas'r ; I think it 's natur 


"I suppose so, Tom, and you '11 be going off and leaving 
me, in a month or so," he added, rather discontentedly. 
"Though why you shouldn't, no mortal knows," he said, in a 
gayer tone; and, getting up, he began to walk the floor. 

"Not while Mas'r is in trouble," said Tom. "I'll stay 
with Mas'r as long "as he wants me, — so as I can be any use." 

"•Not while I'm in trouble, Tom?" said St. Clare, look- 
ing sadly out of the window " And when will 

my trouble be over?" 

"When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom. 

"And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?" 
said St. Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, 
and laid his hand on Tom's shoulder. " Ah, Tom, you soft, 
silly boy ! I won't keep you till that day. Go home to your 
wife and children, and give my love to all." 

" I 's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom, 
earnestly, and with tears in his eyes ; " the Lord has a work 
for Mas'r." 

"A work, hey?" said St. Clare; "well, now, Tom. give 
me your views on what sort of a work it is ; — let's hear." 

"Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the 
Lord : and Mas'r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and 
friends, — how much he might do for the Lord! " 

" Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done 
for him," said St. Clare, smiling. 

" We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs," 
said Tom. 

" Good theology, Tom ; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare 
swear," said St. Clare. 

The conversation w T as here interrupted by the announce- 
ment of some visiters. 

Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could 


feel anything; and, as she was a woman that had a great 
faculty of making everybody unhappy when she was, hei 
immediate attendants had still stronger reason to regret the 
loss of their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle 
intercessions had so often been a shield to them from the 
tyrannical and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old 
Mammy, in particular, whose heart, severed from all nat- 
ural domestic ties, had consoled itself with this one beautiful 
being, was almost heart-broken. She cried day and night, 
and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful and alert in her 
ministrations on her mistress than usual, which drew down & 
constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head. 

Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest 
heart, it bore fruit unto everlasting life. She was more soft- 
ened, more gentle ; and, though equally assiduous in every 
duty, it was with a chastened and quiet air, as one who com- 
muned with her own heart not in vain. She was more dili- 
gent in teaching Topsy, — taught her mainly from the Bible, 
— did not any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an 
ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none. She viewed her 
now through the softened medium that Eva's hand had first 
held before her eyes, and saw in her only an immortal crea- 
ture, whom God had sent to be led by her to glory and vir- 
tue. Topsy did not become at once a saint ; but the life and 
death of Eva did work a marked change in her. The cal- 
lous indifference was gone ; the: 2 was now sensibility, hope, 
desire, and the striving for good, — a strife irregular, inter- 
rupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed again. 

One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, 
ghe came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom. 

"What are you doing there, you limb? You've been 
stealing something, I'll be bound," said the imperious little 


Rosa, who bad been sent to call her, seizing her, at the 
same time, ro ighly by the arm. 

" You go 'long, Miss Rosa ! " said Topsy, pulling from 
her; " 'tan't none o' your business ! " 

" None o' your sa'ce ! " said Rosa. "I saw you hiding 
something, — I know yer tricks," and Rosa seized her arm, 
and tried to force her hand into her bosom, while Topsy, 
enraged, kicked and fought valiantly for what she considered 
her rights. The clamor and confusion of the battle drew 
Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the spot. 

" She 's been stealing ! " said Rosa. 

"I han't, neither!" vociferated Topsy, sobbing with pas- 

" Give me that, whatever it is! " said Miss Ophelia, firmly. 

Topsy hesitated ; but, on a second order, pulled out of her 
bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own 
old stockings. 

Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, 
which had been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single 
verse of Scripture, arranged for every day in the year, and 
in a paper the curl of hair that she had given her on that 
memorable day when she had taken her last farewell. 

St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it ; the 
little book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn 
from the funeral weeds. 

" What did you wrap this round the book for?" said St. 
Clare, holding up the crape. 

" Cause, — cause, — cause 'twas Miss Eva. 0, don't take 
'em away, please! " she said; and, sitting flat down on the 
floor, and putting her apron over her head, she be^an to sob 

It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous. 

130 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

— the little old stocking, — black crape, — text-book, — fair 
soft curl, — and Topsy's utter distress. 

St. Clare smiled ; but there were tears in his eyes, as he 

"Come, come, — don't cry; you shall have them!" and, 
putting them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew 
Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor. 

" I really think you can make something of that concern," 
he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. 
" Any mind that is capable of a real sorroiv is capable of 
good. You must try and do something with her." 

" The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. "I 
have great hopes of her ; but, Augustine," she said, laying 
her hand on his arm, " one thing I want to ask; whose is 
this child to be 1 — yours or mine 1 " 

"Why, I gave her to you" said Augustine. 

" But not legally; — I want her to be mine legally," said 
Miss Ophelia. 

" Whew ! cousin," said Augustine. "What will the Aboli- 
tion Society think? They '11 have a day of fasting appointed 
for this backsliding, if you become a slave-holder ! " 

"0, nonsense ! I want her mine, that I may have a right 
to take her to the free States, and give her her liberty, that 
all I am trying to do be not undone." 

"0, cousin, what an' awful l doing evil that good may 
come'! I can't encourage it." 

"I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss 
Ophelia. " There is no use in my trying to make this child 
a Christian child, unless I save her from all the chances and 
reverses of slavery ; and, if you really are willing I should 
have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or some legal 


"Well, well," said St. Clare, "I will; " and lie sat down, 
ind unfolded a newspaper to read. 

" But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia. 

" What 's your hurry? " 

" Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing 
in," said Miss Ophelia. "Come, now, here's paper, pen, 
and ink ; just write a paper." 

St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially 
hated the present tense of action, generally ; and, therefore, 
he was considerably annoyed by Miss Ophelia's downright- 

"Why, what's the matter?" said he. "Can't you take 
my word ? One would think you had taken lessons of the 
Jews, coming at a fellow so ! " 

"I want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. "You 
may die, or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, 
spite of all I can do." 

"Really, you are quite provident. Well, seeing I'm in 
the hands of a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to con- 
cede; " and St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which, 
as he was well versed in the forms of law, he could easily do, 
and signed his name to it in sprawling capitals, concluding by 
a tremendous flourish. 

"There, isn't that black and white, now, Miss Ver- 
mont? " he said, as he handed it to her. 

" Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiling. " But must it 
not be witnessed?" 

"0, bother ! — yes. Here," he said, opening the door into 
Marie's apartment, "Marie, Cousin wants your autograph; 
just put your name down here." 

"What's this?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper. 
n Ridiculous ! I thought Cousin was too pious for such 


horrid things," she added, as she carelessly wrote her name, 
"but, if she has a fancj for that article, I am sure she's 

"There, now, she's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare, 
handing the paper. 

"No more mine now than she was before," said Miss 
Ophelia. " Nobody but God has a right to give her to me ; 
but I can protect her now." 

"Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. 
Clare, as he turned back into the parlor, and sat down to his 

Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company, 
followed him into the parlor, having first carefully laid away 
the paper. 

" Augustine," she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, 
" have you ever made any provision for your servants, in case 
oi your death? " 

" No." said St. Clare, as he read on. 

" Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great 
ciuelty, by and by." 

St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but 
he answered, negligently, 

" Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by." 

" When? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" 0, one of these days." 

" What if you should die first? " 

"Cousin, what's the matter?" said St. Clare, laying 
down his paper and looking at her. " Do you think I show 
symptoms of yellow fever or cholera, that you are making 
post mortem arrangements with such zeal? " 

"'In the midst of life we are in death/" said Miss 


St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly, 
walked to the door that stood open on the verandah, to put an 
end to a conversation that was not agreeable to him. Me- 
chanically, he repeated the last word again, — " Death /" — 
and, as he leaned against the railings, and watched the spark- 
ling water as it rose and fell in the fountain; and, as in a dim 
and dizzy haze, saw flowers and trees and vases of the courts, 
he repeated again the mystic word so common in every 
mouth, yet of such fearful power, — " Death !" " Strange 
that there should be such a word," he said, " and such a 
thing, and we ever forget it ; that one should be living, warm 
a*id beautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, 
and the next be gone, utterly gone, and forever ! " 

It was a warm, golden evening; and, as he walked to the 
other end of the verandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his 
Bible, pointing, as he did so, with his finger to each succes- 
sive word, and whispering them to himself with an earnest 

"Want me to read to you, Tom?" said St. Clare, seating 
himself carelessly by him. 

"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully, "Mas'r makes 
it so much plainer." 

St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and 
began reading one of the passages which Tom had designated 
by the heavy marks around it. It ran as follows : 

' ' When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all 
his holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne 
of his glory : and before him shall be gathered all nations ; 
and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd 
divideth his sheep from the goats." St. Clare read on in an 
animated voice, till he came to the last of the verses. 

" Then shall the king say unto them on his left hand, 

VOL. II. 12 


Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire : for I was 
an hungered, and ye gave me no meat : I was thirsty, and ye 
gave me no drink : I was a stranger, and ye took me not in : 
naked, and ye clothed me not : J was sick, and in prison, and 
ye visited me not. Then shal 1 they answer unto Him, Lord 
when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or 
naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee ? 
Then shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to 
one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me." 

St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read 
it twice, — the second time slowly, and as if he were revolv- 
ing the words in his mind. 

"Tom," he said, "these folks that get such hard measure 
seem to have been doing just what I have, — living good, 
easy, respectable lives ; and not troubling themselves to in- 
quire how many of their brethren were hungry or athirst, or 
sick, or in prison." 

Tom did not answer. 

St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down 
the verandah, seeming to forget everything in his own 
thoughts; so absorbed was he, that Tom had to remind him 
twice that the tea-bell had rung, before he could get his 

St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After 
tea, he and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the 
parlor, almost in silence. 

Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito 
curtain, and was soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently 
busied herself with her knitting. St. Clare sat down to the 
piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy movement 
with the -ZEolian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep 
reverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. Aftei a 


little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music- 
book whose leaves were yellow with age, and began turning 
it over. 

" There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my 
mother's books, — and here is her handwriting, — come and 
look at it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart's 
Requiem." Miss Ophelia came accordingly. 

c: It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. 
'•'- I think I can hear her now." 

He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that 
grand old Latin piece, the " Dies Irce." 

Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn 
by the sound to the very door, where he stood earnestly. 
He did not understand the words, of course ; but the music 
and manner of singing appeared to affect him strongly, espec- 
ially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts. Tom 
would have sympathized more heartily, if he b- ,r1 known t^« 
meaning of the beautiful words : 

Recordare Jesu pie 
Quod sum causa tuce visa 
Ne me perdas, ilia die 
Quserens me sedisti lassus 
Redemisti crucem passus 
Tantus labor non sit cassus.* 

St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the 

♦ These lines 'lave been thus rather inadequately translated : 

Think, Jesus, for what reason 

Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason, 

Nor me lose, in that dread season ; 

Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted, 

On the cross thy soul death tasted, 

Let not all these toils be wasted. 


words ; for the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and 
he seemed to hear his mother's voice leading his. Voice and 
instrument seemed both living, and threw out with vivid 
sympathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart first con- 
ceived as his own dying requiem. 

When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head 
upon his hand a few moments, and then began walking up 
and down the floor. 

" What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment ! " 
said he, — " a righting of all the wrongs of ages ! — a solving 
of all moral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom ! It is, 
indeed, a wonderful image." 

" It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia. 

" It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St Clare, stopping, 
thoughtfully. "I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that 
chapter in Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have 
been quite struck with it. One should have expected some 
terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded from 
Heaven, as the reason ; but no, — they are condemned for not 
doing positive good, as if that included everjr possible harm." 

"Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a per- 
son who does no good not to do harm." 

"And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but 
with deep feeling, "what shall be said of one whose own 
heart, whose education, and the wants of society, have called 
m vain to some noble purpose ; who has floated on, a dreamy, 
neutral spectator of the struggles, agonies, and wrongs of 
man, when he should have been a worker? " 

"I should say," said Miss Ophelia, "that he ought to 
repent, and begin now." 

"Always practical and to the point! " said St. Clare, his 
face breaking out into a smile. "You never leave me any 


time for general reflections, Cousin; you always bring me 
short up against the actual present ; you have a kind of eter- 
nal now, always in your mind." 

" Now is all the time I have anything to do with," said 
Miss Ophelia. 

" Dear little Eva, — poor child!" said St. Clare, "she had 
set her little simple soul on a good work for me." 

It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever 
said as many words as these of her, and he spoke now evi- 
dently repressing very strong feeling. 

"My view of Christianity is such," he added, "that I 
think no man can consistently profess it without throwing the 
whole weight of his being against this monstrous system of 
injustice that lies at the foundation of all our society ; and, if 
need be, sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I mean that 
/ could not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly 
had intercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian 
people who did no such thing ; and I confess that the apathy 
of religious people on this subject, their want of perception 
of wrongs that filled me with honor, have engendered in me 
more scepticism than any other thing." 

"If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, "why didn't 
you do it 1 " 

" 0, because I have had only that kind of benevolence 
which consists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and 
clergy for not being martyrs and confessors. One can see, 
you know, very easily, how others ought to be martyrs." 

"Well, are you going to do differently now? " said Miss 

"God only knows the future," said St. Clare. "I am 
braver than I was, because I have lost all ; and he who has 
nothing to lose can afford all risks." 

VOL. II. 12* 


" And what are you going to do ? " 

" My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it 
out," said St. Clare, "beginning with my own servants, for 
whom I have yet done nothing ; and, perhaps, at some future 
day, it may appear that I can do something for a whole class ; 
something to save my country from the disgrace of that false 
position in which she now stands before all civilized nations." 

" Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will volun- 
tarily emancipate? " said Miss Ophelia. 

" I don't know," said St. Clare. " This is a day of great 
deeds. Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and 
there, in the earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions 
of serfs, at an immense pecuniary loss ; and, perhaps, among 
us may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate honor 
and justice by dollars and cents." 

" I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia. 

" But, suppose we should rise up to-morrow and eman- 
cipate, who would educate these millions, and teach them how 
to use their freedom ? They never would rise to do much 
among us. The fact is, we are too lazy and unpractical, our- 
selves, ever to give them much of an idea of that industry 
and energy which is necessary to form them into men. They 
will have to go north, where labor is the fashion, — the uni- 
versal custom; and tell me, now, is there enough Christian 
philanthropy, among your northern states, to bear with the 
process of their education and elevation? You send thou- 
sands of dollars to foreign missions ; but could you endure to 
have the heathen sent into your towns and villages, and give 
your time, and thoughts, and money, to raise them to the 
Christian standard? That's what I want to know. If we 
emancipate, are you willing to educate ? How many families, 
in your town, would take in a negro man and woman, teach 


them, bear with them, and seek to make them Christians I 
How many merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to 
make him a clerk ; or mechanics, if I wanted him taught a 
trade ? If I wanted to put Jane and Rosa to a school, how 
many schools are there in the northern states that would 
take them in ? how many families that would board them ? 
and yet they are as white as many a woman, north or south. 
You see, Cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad 
position. We are the more obvious oppressors of the negro ; 
but the unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressor 
almost equally severe." 

" Well, Cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia, — M I 
know it was so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to 
overcome it ; but, I trust I have overcome it ; and I know 
there are many good people at the north, who in this matter 
need only to be taught what their duty is, to do it. It 
would certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen 
among us, than to send missionaries to them ; but I think 
we would do it." 

" You would, I know," said St. Clare. "I'd like to see 
anything you would n't do, if you thought it your duty ! " 

"Well, I'm not uncommonly good," saift Miss Ophelia. 
" Others would, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take 
Topsy home, when I go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at 
first ; but I think they will be brought to see as I do. Be- 
sides, I know there are many people at the north who do 
exactly what you said." 

" Yes, but they are a minority ; and, if we should begin 
to emancipate to any extent, we should soon hear from you." 

Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some 
moments ; and St. Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad, 
dreamy expression. 

1 f.0 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

"I don't know what makes me tliink of my mothei so 
much, to-night," he said. H I have a strange kind of feeling, 
as if she were near me. I keep thinking of things she used 
to say. Strange, what brings these past things so vividly 
back to us, sometimes ! " 

St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes 
more, and then said, 

" I believe I '11 go down street, a few moments, and hear 
the news, to-night." 

He took his hat, and passed out. 

Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and 
asked if he should attend him. 

" No, my boy," said St. Clare. " I shall be back in an 

Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful moon- 
light evening, and he sat watching the rising and falling 
spray of the fountain, and listening to its murmur. Tom 
thought of his home, and that he should soon be a free man, 
and able to return to it at will. He thought how he should 
work to buy his wife and boys. He felt the muscles of his 
brawny arms with a sort of joy, as he thought they would 
soon belong to nimself, and how much they could do to work 
out the freedom of his family. Then he thought of his noble 
young master, and, ever second to that, came the habitual 
prayer that he had always offered for him ; and then his 
thoughts passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now 
thought of among the angels ; and he thought till he almost 
fancied that that bright face and golden hair were looking 
upon him, out of the spray of the fountain. Andy so musing, 
he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding 
towards him, just as she used to come, with a wreath of jes- 
samine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant 


with delight ; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from the 
ground; her cheeks wore a paler hue, — her eyes had a deep, 
divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her head, — 
and she vanished from his sight ; and Tom was awakened by 
a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices at the gate. 

He hastened to undo it ; and, with smothered voices and 
heavy tread, came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in 
a cloak, and lying on a shutter. The light of the lamp fell 
full on the face ; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement and 
despair, that rung through all the galleries, as the men 
advanced, with their burden, to the open parlor door, where 
Miss Ophelia still sat knitting. 

St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening 
paper. As he was reading, an affray arose between two gen- 
tlemen in the room, who were both partially intoxicated. St. 
Clare and one or two otLers made an effort to separate them, 
and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side with a bowie- 
knife, which he was attempting to wrest from one of them. 

The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and 
screams; servants frantically tearing their hair, throwing 
themselves on the ground, or running distractedly about, 
lamenting. Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have 
any presence of mind ; for Marie was in strong hysteric con- 
vulsions. At Miss Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges in 
the parlor was hastily prepared, and the bleeding form laid 
upon it. St. Clare had fainted, through pain and loss of 
blood ; but, as Miss Ophelia applied restoratives, he revived, 
opened his eyes, looked fixedly on them, looked earnestly 
around the room, his eyes travelling wistfully over every 
object, and finally they rested on his mother's picture. 

The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It 
was evident, from the expression of his face, that there was 

142 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

no hope ; but lie applied himself to dressing the wound, and 
he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceeded composedly with 
this work, amid the lamentations and sobs and cries of the 
affrighted servants, who had clustered about the doors and 
windows of the verandah. 

"Now," said the physician, " we must turn all these 
creatures out ; all depends on his being kept quiet." 

St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the dis- 
tressed beings, whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying 
to urge from the apartment. "Poor creatures!" he said, 
and an expression of bitter self-reproach passed over his 
face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror had deprived 
him of all presence of mind ; he threw himself along on the 
floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest 
yielded to Miss Ophelia's urgent representations, that their 
master's safety depended on their stillness and obedience. 

St. Clare could say but little ; he lay with his eyes shut, 
but it was evident that he wrestled with bitter thoughts. 
After a while, he laid his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling 
beside him, and said, " Tom ! poor fellow ! " 

" What, Mas'r? " said Tom, earnestly. 

"I am dying!" said St. Clare, pressing his hand; 
"pray ! " 

"If you would like a clergyman — " said the physician. 

St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, 
more earnestly, "Pray ! " 

And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the 
soul that was passing, — the soul that seemed looking so 
steadily and mournfully from those large, melancholy blue 
eyes. It was literally prayer offered with strong crying and 

When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and 


took his hand, looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. 
He closed his eyes, but still retained his hold ; for, in the 
gates of eternity, the black hand and the white hold each other 
with an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at 
broken intervals, 

" Recordare Jesu pie — 

Ne me perdas — ille die 
Quserens me — sedisti lassus." 

It was evident that the words he had been singing that 
evening were passing through his mind, — words of entreaty 
addressed to Infinite Pity. His lips moved at intervals, as 
parts of the hymn fell brokenly from them. 

" His mind is wandering," said the doctor. 

" No ! it is coming home, at last ! " said St. Clare, ener- 
getically ; "at last ! at last ! " 

The effort of speaking exhausted him. The sinking pale- 
ness of death fell him ; but with it there fell, as if shed 
from the wings of s— * pitying spirit, a beautiful expression 
of peace, like that of a wearied child who -sleeps. 

So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty 
hand was on him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened 
his eyes, with a sudden light, as of joy and recognition, and 
said "Mother!" and then he was gone ! 




We hear often of the distress of the negro servants, on the 
loss of a kind master ; and with good reason, for no creature 
on God's earth is left more utterly unprotected and desolate 
than the slave in these circumstances. 

The child who has lost a father has still the protection of 
friends, and of the law ; he is something, and can do some- 
thing, — has acknowledged rights and position ; the slave has 
none. The law regards him, in every respect, as devoid of 
rights as a bale of merchandise. The only possible acknowl- 
edgment of any of the longings and wants of a human and 
immortal creature, which are given to him, comes to him 
through the sovereign and irresponsible will of his master ; 
and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains. 

The number of those men who know how to use wholly 
irresponsible power humanely and generously is small. 
Everybody knows this, and the slave knows it best of all ; so 
that he feels that there are ten chances of his finding an 
abusive and tyrannical master, to one of his finding a con- 
siderate and kind one. Therefore is it that the wail over 
a kind master is loud and long, as well it may be. 

When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation 
took hold of all his household. He had been stricken down 
so in a moment, in the flower and strength of his youth ! 
Every room and gallery of the house resounded with sobs 
and shrieks of despair. 

Marie, whose nervous system had been enervated by a con- 


stant course of self-indulgence, had nothing to support the 
terror of the shock, and, at the time her husband breathed 
his last, was passing from one fainting fit to another ; and he 
to whom she had been joined in the mysterious tie of mar- 
riage passed from her forever, without the possibility of even 
a parting word. 

Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control, 
nad remained with her kinsman to the last, — all eye, all ear, 
all attention ; doing everything of the little that could be 
done, and joining with her whole soul in the tender and 
impassioned prayers whicii the poor slave had poured forth 
for the soul of his dying master. 

When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found 
apon his bosom a small, plain miniature case, opening with a 
spring. It was the miniature of a noble and beautiful female 
face ; and on the reverse, under a crystal, a lock of dark hair. 
They laid them back on the lifeless breast, — dust to dust, — 
poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once made that ^ 
cold heart beat so warmly ! 

Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity ; and 
while he ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once 
think that the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. 
He felt at peace about his master ; for in that hour, when he 
had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his Father, he 
had found an answer of quietness and assurance springing up 
within himself. In the depths of his own affectionate nature^ 
he felt able to perceive something of the fulness of Divine 
love ; for an old oracle hath thus written, — " He that dwell- 
eth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him." Tom hoped 
and trusted, and was at peace. * ? 

But the funeral passed, with all its pageant of black crape, 
and prayers, and solemn faces ; and back rolled the cool, 

VOL. II. 13 


muddy waves of ever y-day life ; and up came the everlasting 
hard inquiry of u What is to be done next? " 

It rose to the mind of Marie, as, dressed in loose morn- 
ing-robes, and surrounded by anxious servants, she sat up m a 
great easy-chair, and inspected samples of crape and bom Da- 
zine. It rose to Miss Ophelia, who began to turn her 
thoughts towards her northern home. It rose, in silent ter- 
rors, to the minds of the servants, who well knew the unfeel- 
ing, tyrannical character of the mistress in whose hands 
they were left. All knew, very well, that the indulgences 
which had been accorded to them were not from their mis- 
tress, but from their master; and that, now he was gone, 
there would be no screen between them and every tyrannous 
infliction which a temper soured by affliction might devise. 

It was about a fortnight after the funeral, that Miss Ophe- 
lia, busied one day in her apartment, heard a gentle tap at 
the door. She opened it, and there stood Rosa, the pretty 
young quadroon, whom we have before often noticed, her 
hair in disorder, and her eyes swelled with crying. 

"0, Miss Feely," she said, falling on her knees, and 
catching the skirt of her dress, u do, do go to Miss Marie for 
me ! do plead for me ! She 's goin' to send me out to be 
whipped, — look there ! " And she handed to Miss Ophelia a 

It was an order, written in Marie's delicate Italian hand, 
to the master of a whipping-establishment, to give the bearer 
fifteen lashes. 

" What have you been doing ? " said Miss Ophelia. 

"You know, Miss Feely, I've got such a bad temper; 
it 's very bad of me. I was trying on Miss Marie's dress, 
and she slapped my face ; and I spoke out before I thought, 
and was saucy ; and she said that she 'd bring me down, and 


have me know, once for all, that I was n't going to he so top- 
ping as I had heen ; and she wrote this, and says I shall 
carry it. I 'd rather she 'd kill me, right out." 

Miss Ophelia stood considering, with the paper in her 

"You see, Miss Feely," said Eosa, "I don't mind the 
whipping so much, if Miss Marie or you was to do it ; but, 
to be sent to a man ! and such a horrid man, — the shame 
of it, Miss Feely ! " 

I Miss Ophelia well knew that it was the universal custom 
to send women and young girls to whipping-houses, to the 
hands of the lowest of men, — men vile enough to make this 
their profession, — there to be subjected to brutal exposure and 
shameful correction. She had known it before ; but hitherto 
she had never realized it, till she saw the slender form of 
Rosa almost convulsed with distress. All the honest blood 
of womanhood, the strong New England blood of liberty, 
flushed to her cheeks, and throbbed bitterly in her indignant 
heart ; but, with habitual prudence and self-control, she mas- 
tered herself, and, crushing the paper firmly in her hand, she 
merely said to Rosa, 

" Sit down, child, while I go to your mistress." 

" Shameful ! monstrous ! outrageous ! " she said to her- 
self, as she was crossing the parlor. 

She found Marie sitting up in her easy-chair, with Mammy 
standing by her, combing her hair ; Jane sat on the ground 
before her, busy in chafing her feet. 

" How do you find yourself, to-day?" said Miss Ophelia. 

A deep sigh, and a closing of the eyes, was the only reply, 
for a moment; and then Marie answered, " 0, I don't know, 
Cousin; I suppose I'm as well as I ever shall be!" and 


Marie "wiped her eyes with a cambric handkerchief, bordered 
with an inch deep of black. 

"I came," said Miss Ophelia, with a short, dry cough, 
such as commonly introduces a difficult subject, — "I came to 
speak with yon about poor Rosa." 

Marie's eyes were open wide enough now, and a flush rose 
to her sallow cheeks, as she answered, sharply, 

" Well, what about her 1 " 

"She is very sorry for her fault." 

" She is, is she? She '11 be sorrier, before I 've done with 
her! I 've endured that child's impudence long enough ; and 
now I '11 bring her down, — I '11 make her lie in the dust ! " 

"But could not you punish her some other way, — some 
way that would be less shameful ? " 

" I mean to shame her ; that's just what I want. She has 
all her life presumed on her delicacy^ and her good looks, and 
her lady-like airs, till she forgets who she is ; — and I '11 give 
her one lesson that will bring her down, I fancy ! " 

"But, Cousin, consider that, if you destroy delicacy and a 
sense of shame in a young girl, you deprave her very fast." 

" Delicacy ! " said Marie, with a scornful laugh, — " a fine 
word for such as she ! I '11 teach her, with all her airs, that 
she 's no better than the raggedest black wench that walks 
the streets ! She '11 take no more airs with mel " 

"You will answer to God for such cruelty!" said Miss 
Ophelia, with energy. 

"Cruelty, — I'd like to know what the cruelty is! I 
wrote orders for only fifteen lashes, and told him to put them 
on lightly. I 'm sure there 's no cruelty there ! " 

"- No cruelty ! " said Miss Ophelia. " I 'm sure any girl 
might rather be killed outright ! " 

"It might seem so to anybody with your feeling; but aL 


these creatures get used to it ; it 's the only way they can be 
kept in order. Once let them feel that they are to take any 
airs about delicacy, and all that, and they '11 run all over you, 
just as my servants always have. I 've begun now to bring 
them under; and I'll have them all to know that I'll send 
one out to be whipped, as soon as another, if they don't mind 
themselves! " said Marie, looking around her decidedly. 

Jane hung her head and cowered at this, for she felt as if 
it was particularly directed to her. Miss Ophelia sat for a 

mient, as if she had swallowed some explosive mature, and 
were ready to burst. Then, recollecting the utter uselessness 
of contention w r ith such a nature, she shut her lips resolutely, 
gathered herself up, and walked out of the room. 

It was hard to go back and tell Rosa that she could do 
nothing for her; and, shortly after, one of the man-servants 
came to say that her mistress had ordered him to take Rosa 
with him to the whipping-house, whither she was hurried, in 
spite of her tears and entreaties. 

A few days after, Tom was standing musing by the bal- 
conies, when he was joined by Adolph, who, since the death 
of his master, had been entirely crest-fallen and disconsolate. 
Adolph knew that he had always been an object of dislike t© 
Marie; but while his master lived he had paid but little 
attention to it. JSTow that he was gone, he had moved about 
in daily dread and trembling, not knowing what might befall 
him next. Marie had held several consultations with her 
lawyer ; after communicating with St. Clare's brother, it was 
determined to sell the place, and all the servants, except her 
own personal property, and these she intended to take with 
her, and go back to her father's plantation. 

"Do ye know, Tom, that we 've all got to be sold? " said 

VOL. II. 13* 


"How did you hear that ? " said Tom. 

" I hid myself behind the curtains when Missis was talking 
with the lawyer. In a few days we shall all be sent off to 
auction, Tom." 

"The Lord's will be done! " said Tom, folding his arms 
and sighing heavily. 

"We'll never get another such a master," said Adolph, 
apprehensively; "but I'd rather be sold than take my chance 
under Missis." 

Tom turned away ; his heart was full. The hope of lib- 
erty, the thought of distant wife and children, rose up before 
his patient soul, as to the mariner shipwrecked almost in port 
rises the vision of the church-spire and loving roofs of his 
native village, seen over the top of some black wave only for 
one last farewell. He drew his arms tightly over his bosom, 
and choked back the bitter tears, and tried to pray. The 
poor old soul had such a singular, unaccountable prejudice in 
favor of liberty, that it was a hard wrench for him ; and the 
more he said, " Thy will be done," the worse he felt. 

He sought Miss Ophelia, who, ever since Eva's death, had 
treated him with marked and respectful kindness. 

"Miss Feely," he said, "Mas'r St. Clare promised me 
my freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out 
for me; and now, perhaps, if Miss Feely would be good 
enough to speak about it to Missis, she would feel like goin' 
on with it, as it was Mas'r St. Clare's wish." 

"I'll speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss 
Ophelia; " but, if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope 
much for you ; — nevertheless, I will try." 

This incident occurred a few days after that of Rosa, while 
Miss Ophelia was busied in preparations to return north. 

Seriously reflecting within herself, she considered that per- 


haps she had shown too hasty a warmth of language in her 
former interview with Marie ; and she resolved that she would 
now endeavor to moderate her zeal, and to be as conciliatory 
as possible. So the good soul gathered herself up, and, tak- 
ing her knitting, resolved to go into Marie's room, be as 
agreeable as possible, and negotiate Tom's case with all the 
diplomatic skill of which she was mistress. 

She found Marie reclining at length upon a lounge, sup- 
porting herself on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had 
been out shopping, was displaying before her certain samples 
of thin black stuffs. 

" That will do," said Marie, selecting one ; " only I 'm not 
sure about its being properly mourning." 

"Laws, Missis," said Jane, volubly, "Mrs. General Der- 
bennon wore just this very thing, after the General died, last 
summer ; it makes up lovely ! " 

"What do you think? " said Marie to Miss Ophelia. 

" It's a matter of custom, I suppose," said Miss Qjphelia. 
' : You can judge about it better than I." 

" The fact is," said Marie, " that I haven't a dress in the 
world that I can wear ; and, as I am going to break up the 
establishment, and go off, next week, I must decide upon 

" Are you going so soon?" 

" Yes. St. Clare's brother has written, and he and the 
lawyer think that the servants and furniture had better be 
put up at auction, and the place left with our lawyer." 

"There's one thing I wanted to speak with you about," 
said Miss Ophelia. "Augustine promised Tom his liberty, 
and began the legal forms necessary to it. I hope you will 
use your influence to have it perfected." 

"Indeed, I shall do no such thing ! " said Marie, sharply. 

152 uncle tom's cabin : on, 

" Tom is one of the most valuable servants on the place, — it 
couldn't be afforded, any way. Besides, what does he want 
of liberty? He 's a great deal better off as he is." 

" But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master 
promised it," said Miss Ophelia. 

" I dare say he does want it," said Marie ; " they all want 
it, just because they are a discontented set, — always wanting 
w T hat they have n't got. Now, I 'm principled against eman- 
cipating, in any case. Keep a negro under the care of a 
master, and he does well enough, and is respectable ; but set 
them free, and they get lazy, and won't work, and take to 
drinking, and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows. 
I've seen it tried, hundreds of times. It 's no favor to set 
them free." 

" But Tom is so steady, industrious, and pious." 

" 0, you needn't tell me ! I've seen a hundred like him. 
He '11 do very well, as long as he 's taken care of, — that 's 
all." , 

" But, then, consider," said Miss Ophelia, "when you set 
him up for sale, the chances of his getting a bad master." 

"0, that 's all humbug ! " said Marie ; "it isn't one time 
in a hundred that a good fellow gets a bad master ; most 
masters are good, for all the talk that is made. I 've lived 
and grown up here, in the South, and I never yet was ac- 
quainted with a master that didn't treat his servants well, — 
quite as well as is worth while. I don't feel any fears on 
that head." 

"Well," said Miss Ophelia, energetically, "I know it was 
one of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should have 
his liberty ; it was one of the promises that he made to dear 
little Eva on her death-bed, and I should not think you 
would feel at liberty to disregard it." 


Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this 
appeal, and began sobbing and using her smelling-bottle, with 
great vehemence. 

" Everybody goes against me ! " she said. " Everybody is 
so inconsiderate ! I shouldn't have expected that you would 
bring up all these remembrances of my troubles to me, — it 's 
so inconsiderate ! But nobody ever does consider, — my trials 
are so peculiar! It's so hard, that when I had only one 
daughter, she should have been taken ! — and when I had a 
husband that just exactly suited me, — and I 'm so hard to be 
suited ! — he should be taken ! And you seem to have so 
little feeling for me, and keep bringing it up to me so care- 
lessly, — when you know how it overcomes me ! I suppose 
you mean well ; but it is very inconsiderate, — very ! " And 
Marie sobbed, and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to 
open the window, and to bring her the camphor-bottle, and 
to bathe her head, and unhook her dress. And, in the gen- 
eral confusion that ensued, Miss Ophelia made her escape to 
her apartment. 

She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say anything 
more ; for Marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits ; 
and, after this, whenever her husband's or Eva's wishes with 
regard to the servants were alluded to, she always found it 
convenient to set one in operation. Miss Ophelia, therefore, 
did the next best thing she could for Tom, — she wrote a let- 
ter to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging 
them to send to his relief. 

The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen 
other servants, were marched down to a slave-warehouse, to 
await the convenience of the trader, who was going to make 
up a lot for auction. 

154 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 



A slave warehouse ! Perhaps some of my readers con- 
jure up horrible visions of such a place. They fancy sonu 
foul, obscure den, some horrible Tartarus " informis, in- 
gens, cai lumen ademption" But no, innocent friend; in 
these days men have learned the art of sinning expertly and 
genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes and senses of re- 
spectable society. Human property is high in the market ; 
and is, therefore, well fed, well cleaned, tended, and looked 
after, that it may come to sale sleek, and strong, and shining. 
A slave-warehouse in New Orleans is a house externally not 
much unlike many others, kept with neatness ; and where 
every day you may see arranged, under a sort of shed along 
the outside, rows of men and women, who stand there . as a 
sign of the property sold within. 

Then you shall be courteously entreated to call and ex- 
amine, and shall find an abundance of husbands, wives, broth- 
ers, sisters, fathers, mothers, and young children, to be "sold 
separately, or in lots to suit the convenience of the pur- 
chaser;" and that soul immortal, once bought with blood and 
anguish by the Son of God, when the earth shook, and the 
rocks rent, and the graves were opened, can be sold, leased, 
mortgaged, exchanged for groceries or dry goods, to suit the 
phases of trade, or the fancy of the purchaser. 

It was a day or two after the conversation between Marie 
and Miss Ophelia, that Tom, Adolph, and about half a dozen 
others of the St. Clare estate, were turned over to the loving 


kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the keeper of a depot on street, 

to await the auction, next day. 

Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing, as 
had most others of them. They were ushered, for the night, 
into a long room, where many other men, of all ages, sizes. 
and shades of complexion, were assembled, and from which 
roars of laughter and unthinking merriment were proceeding. 

"Ah, ha! that's right Go it, boys, — go it!" said Mr. 
Skeggs, the keeper. "My people are always so merry! 
Sambo, I see ! " he said, speaking approvingly to a burly 
negro who was performing tricks of low buffoonery, which 
occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard. 

As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join these 
proceedings ; and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possi- 
ble from the noisy group, he sat down on it, and leaned his 
face against the wall. 

The dealers in the human article make scrupulous and 
systematic efforts to promote noisy mirth among them, as a 
means of drowning reflection, and rendering them insensible 
to their condition. The whole object of the training to 
which the negro is put, from the time he is sold in the north- 
ern market till he arrives south, is systematically directed 
towards making him callous, unthinking, and brutal. The 
slave-dealer collects his gang in Virginia or Kentucky, and 
drives them to some convenient, heathy place, — often a 
watering place, — to be fattened. Here they are fed full daily; 
and, because some incline to pine, a fiddle is kept commonly 
going among them, and they are made to dance daily; and he 
who refuses to be merry — in whose soul thoughts of wife, or 
child, or home, are too strong for him to be gay — is marked 
as sullen and dangerous, and subjected to all the evils which 
the ill will of an utterly irresponsible and hardened man can 


inflict upon him. Briskness, alertness, and cheerfulness of 
appearance, especially before observers, are constantly en- 
forced upon them, both by the hope of thereby getting a good 
master, and the fear of all that the driver may bring upon 
them, if they prove unsalable. 

"What dat ar nigger doin here?" said Sambo, coming 
up to Tom, after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was 
a full black, of great size, very lively, voluble, and full of 
trick and grimace. 

"What you doin here?" said Sambo, coming up to Tom, 
and poking him facetiously in the side. " Meditatin', eh ? " 

" I am to be sold at the auction, to-morrow ! " said Tom, 

" Sold at auction, — haw ! haw ! boys, an't this yer fun? I 
wish't I was gwine that ar way ! — tell ye, wouldn't I make 
em laugh ? But how is it, — dis yer whole lot gwine to-mor- 
row ? " said Sambo, laying his hand freely on Adolph's 

" Please to let me alone ! " said Adolph, fiercely, straight- 
ening himself up, with extreme disgust. 

"Law, now, boys! dis yer's one o' yer white niggers, — 
kind o' cream color, ye know, scented ! " said he, coming up 
to Adolph iind snuffing. " 0, Lor ! he 'd do for a tobaccer- 
shop; they could keep him to scent snuff! Lor, he 'd keep 
ti whole shope agwme, — he would I" 

"I say, keep off, can't you?" said Adolph, enraged. 

" Lor, now, how touchy we is, — we white niggers ! Look 
at us, now ! " and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of 
Adolph's manner; "here's de airs and graces. We 's been 
\n a good family, I specs." 

"Yes," said Adolph; "I had a master that could have 
bought you all for old truck ! " 


"Laws, now, only think," said Sambo, "the gentlemens 
that we is ! " • 

"I belonged to the St. Clare family," said Adolph, 

"Lor, you did! Be hanged if they ar'n't lucky to get 
shet of ye. Spects they 's gwine to trade ye off with a lot o 1 
cracked tea-pots and sich like ! " said Sambo, with a pro yok- 
ing grin. 

Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adver- 
sary, swearing and striking on every side of him. The rest 
laughed and shouted, and the uproar brought the keeper to 
the door. 

"What now, boys? Order, — order ! " he said, coming in 
and flourishing a large whip. 

All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, pre- 
suming on the favor which the keeper had to him as a licensed 
wag, stood his ground, ducking his head with a facetious 
grin, whenever the master made a dive at him. 

"Lor, Mas'r, 'tan't us, — we 's reglar stiddy, — it's these 
ycr new hands ; they 's real aggravating — kinder pickin' at 
us, all time ! " 

The keeper, at this, turned upon Tom and Adolph, and dis- 
tributing a few kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, and 
leaving general orders for all to be good boys and go to sleep, 
left the apartment. 

While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping-room, 
the reader may be curious to take a peep at the corresponding 
apartment allotted to the women. Stretched out in various 
attitudes over the floor, he may see numberless sleeping forms 
of every shade of complexion, from. the purest ebony to white, 
and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now asleep. 
Here is a fine bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was sold 

VOL. II. 14 

158 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

out yesterday, and who to-night cried herself to sleep when 
nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose 
thin arms and callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be 
sold to-morrow, as a cast-off article, for what can be got for 
her; and some forty or fifty others, with heads variously 
enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, lie stretched 
around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from the rest ; 
are two females of a more interesting appearance than com- 
mon. One of these is a respectably-dressed mulatto woman 
between forty and fifty, with soft eyes and a gentle and pleas- 
ing physiognomy. She has on her head a high-raised tur- 
ban, made of a gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first 
quality, and her dress is neatly fitted, and of good material, 
showing that she has been provided for with a careful hand. 
By her side, and nestling closely to her, is a young girl of 
fifteen, — her daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be seen 
from her fairer complexion, though her likeness to her mother 
is quite discernible. She has the lame soft, dark eye, with 
longer lashes, and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown. 
She also is dressed with great neatness, and her white, delicate 
hands betray very little acquaintance with servile toil. These 
two are to be sold to-morrow, in the same lot with the St. 
Clare servants ; and the gentleman to whom they belong, and 
to whom the money for their sale is to be transmitted, is a 
member of a Christian church in New York, who will receive 
the money, and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord 
and theirs, and think no more of it. 

These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had 
been the personal attendants of an amiable and pious lady of 
New Orleans, by whom they had been carefully and piously 
instructed and trained. They had been taught to read and 
write, diligently instructed in the truths of religion, and their 


lot had been as happy an one as in their condition it was pos- 
sible to be. But the only son of their protectress had the 
management of her property ; and, by carelessness and extrav- 
agance involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One 
of the largest creditors was the respectable firm of B. & Co., 
in New York. B. & Co. wrote to their lawyer in New 
Orleans, who attached the real estate (these two articles and 
a lot of plantation hands formed the most valuable part of it), 
and wrote word to that effect to New York. Brother B., 
being, as we have said, a Christian man, and a resident in a 
free State, felt some uneasiness on the subject. He did n't 
like trading in slaves and souls of men, — of course, he didn't ; 
but, then, there were thirty thousand dollars in the case, and 
that was rather too much money to be lost for a principle ; 
and so, after much considering, and asking advice from those 
that he knew would advise to suit him, Brother B. wrote to 
his lawyer to dispose of the business in the way that seemed 
to him the most suitable,, and remit the proceeds. 

The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan 
and Emmeline were attached, and sent to the depot to await 
a general auction on the following morning; and as they 
glimmer faintly upon us in the moonlight which steals through 
the grated window, we may listen to their conversation. Both 
are weeping, but each quietly, that the other may not hear. 

"Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you 
Can't sleep a little," says the girl, trying to appear calm. 

"I haven't any heart to sleep, Em; I can't; it's the last 
night we may be together ! " 

" 0, mother, don't say so! perhaps we shall get sold to- 
gether, — who knows 1 " 

" If 'twas anybody's else case, I should say so, too, Em," 

160 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

said the woman ; " but I 'm so feard of losin' you that I don't 
see anything but the danger." 

"Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and 
would sell well." 

Susan remembered the man's looks and words. With a 
deadly sickness at her heart, she remembered how he had 
looked at Emmeline's hands, and lifted up her curly hair, 
and pronounced her a first-rate article. Susan had been 
trained as a Christian, brought up in the daily reading of the 
Bible, and had the same horror of her child's being sold to a 
life of shame that any other Christian mother might have ; 
but she had no hope,— no protection. 

" Mother, I think we might do first rate, if you could get 
a place as cook, and I as chamber-maid or seamstress, in some 
family. I dare say we shall. Let 's both look as bright and 
lively as we can, and tell all we can do, and perhaps we 
shall," said Emmeline. 

" I want you to brush your hair all back straight, to-mor- 
row," said Susan. 

"What for, mother? I don't look near so well, that 

" Yes, but you '11 sell better so." 

" I don't see why ! " said the child. 

" Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, if 
they saw you looked plain and decent, as if you was n't try- 
ing to look handsome. I know their ways better 'n you do," 
said Susan. 

" Well, mother, then I will." 

"And, Emmeline, if we shouldn't ever see each other 
again, after to-morrow, — if I 'm sold way up on a plantation 
somewhere, and you somewhere else, — always remember how 
you 've been brought up, and all Missis has told you ; take 


your Bible with you, and your hymn-book; and if you're 
faithful to the Lord, he'll be faithful to you." 

So speaks the poor soul, in sore discouragement ; for she 
knows that to-morrow any man, however vile and brutal, 
however godless and merciless, if he only has money to pay 
for her, may become owner of her daughter, body and soul ; 
and then, how is the child to be faithful ? She thinks of all 
this, as she holds her daughter in her arms, and wishes that 
she were not handsome and attractive. It seems almost an 
aggravation to her to remember how purely and piously, 
how much above the ordinary lot, she has been brought up. 
But she has no resort but to pray ; and many such prayers 
to God have gone up from those same trim, neatly-arranged, 
respectable slave-prisons, — prayers which God has not for- 
gotten, as a coming day shall show; for it is written, "Whoso 
causeth one of these little ones to offend, it were better for 
iiim that a mill-stone were hanged about his neck, and that 
he were drowned in the depths of the sea." 

The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly mark- 
ing the bars of the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping 
forms. The mother and daughter are singing together a wild 
and melancholy dirge, common as a funeral hymn among the 
slaves : 

" 0, where is weeping Mary ? 
0, where is weeping Mary J 

'Rived in the goodly land. 
She is dead and gone to Heaven ; 
She is dead and gone to Heaven ; 

'Rived in the goodly land." 

These words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy 
sweetness, in an air which seemed like the sighing of earthly 
despair after heavenly hope, floated through the dark prison 

vol. il. 14* 


rooms with a pathetic cadence, as verse after verse was 
breathed out: 

"0, where are Paul and Silas ? 
0, where are Paul and Silas ? 

Gone to the goodly land. 
They are dead and gone to Heaven ; 
• They are dead and gone to Heaven ; 
'Rived in the goodly land." 

Sing on, poor souls ! The night is short, and the morning 
•will part jou forever ! 

But now it is morning, and everybody is astir ; and the 
worthy Mr. Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods is 
to be fitted out for auction. There is a brisk look-out on the 
toilet; injunctions passed around to every one to put on their 
best face and be spry ; and now all are arranged in a circle 
for a last review, before they are marched up to the Bourse. 

Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his 
mouth, walks around to put farewell touches on his wares. 

"How's this?" he said, stepping in front of Susan and 
Emmeline. " Where 's your curls, gal? " 

The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the 
smooth adroitness common among her class, answers, 

"I was telling her, last night, to put up her hair smooth 
and neat, and not havin' it flying about in curls ; looks more 
respectable so." 

"Bother!" said the man, peremptorily, turning to th. 
girl; "you go right along, and curl yourself real smart!" 
He added, giving a crack to a rattan he held in hxa hand, 
" And be back in quick time, too ! " 

"You go and help her," he added, to the mother. "Then 
curls may make a hundred dollars difference in the sale of her.' ' 

* * * # * * * 


Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving 
to and fro, over the marble pave. On every side of the cir- 
cular area were little tribunes, or stations, for the use of 
speakers and auctioneers. Two of these, on opposite sides of 
the area, were now occupied by brilliant and talented gentle- 
men, enthusiastically forcing up, in English and JYench com- 
mingled, the bids of connoisseurs in their various wares. A 
third one, on the other side, still unoccupied, was surrounded 
by a group, waiting the moment of sale to begin. And here 
we may recognize the St. Clare servants, — Tom, Adolph, 
and others ; and there, too, Susan and Emmeline, awaiting 
their turn with anxious and dejected faces. Various specta- 
tors, intending to purchase, or not intending, as the case 
might be, gathered around the group, handling, examining, 
and commenting on their various points and faces with the 
same freedom that a set of jockeys discuss the merits of a 

"Hulloa, Alf! what brings you here?" said a young 
exquisite, slapping the shoulder of a sprucely-dressed young 
man, who was examining Adolph through an eye-glass. 

" Well, I was wanting a valet, and I heard that St. Clare's 
lot was going. I thought I 'd just look at his — " 

" Catch me ever buying any of St. Clare's people ! Spoilt 
niggers, every one. Impudent as the devil . ' said the 

" Never fear that! " said the first. "If I get 'em, I'll 
soon have their airs out of them; they'll soon find that 
they 've another kind of master to deal with than Monsieur 
St. Clare. 'Pon my word, I'll buy that fellow. I like the 
shape of him." 

" You '11 find it '11 take all you 've got to keep him. He 's 
deucedly extravagant ! " 


"Yes, but my lord will find that he can't be extravagant 
with me. Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times, 
and thoroughly dressed down ! I '11 tell you if it don't bring 
him to a sense of his ways ! 0, I '11 reform him, up hill and 
down, — you '11 see. I buy him, that 's flat ! " 

Tom had teen standing wistfully examining the multitude 
of faces thronging around him, for one whom he would wish 
to call master. And if you should ever be under the neces- 
sity, sir, of selecting, out of two hundred men, one who was 
to become your absolute owner and disposer, you would, per- 
haps, realize, just as Tom did, how few there were that you 
would feel at all comfortable in being made over to. Tom 
saw abundance of men, — great, burly, gruiF men; little, 
chirping, dried men; long-favored, lank, hard men; and 
every variety of stubbed-looking, commonplace men, who pick 
up their fellow-men as one picks up chips, putting them into 
the fire or a basket with equal unconcern, according to their 
convenience ; but he saw no St. Clare. 

A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, muscu- 
lar man, in a checked shirt considerably open at the bosom, 
and pantaloons much the worse for dirt and v^ear, elbowed 
his way through the crowd, like one who is going actively 
into a business ; and, coming up to the group, began to ex- 
amine them systematically. From the moment that Tom 
saw him approaching, he felt an immediate and revolting 
horror at him, that increased as he came near. He was 
evidently, though short, of gigantic strength. His round, 
bullet head, large, light-gray eyes, with their shaggy, sandy 
eye-brows, and stiff, wiry, sun-burned hair, were rather un- 
prepossessing items, it is to be confessed; his large, coarse 
mouth was distended with tobacco, the juice of which, from 
time to time, he ejected from him with great decision and 


explosive force ; his hands were immensely large, hairy, sun- 
burned,- freckled, and very dirty, and garnished with long 
nails, in a very foul condition. This man proceeded to a 
very free personal examination of the lot. He seized Tom 
by the jaw, and pulled open his mouth to inspect his teeth ; 
made him strip up his sleeve, to show his muscle ; turned him 
round, made him jump and spring, to show his paces. 

"Where was you raised?" he added, briefly, to these in- 

"In Kintuek, Mas'r," said Tom, looking about, as if for 

" What have you done? " 

"Had care of Mas'r' s farm," said Tom. 

"Likely story ! " said the other, shortly, as he passed on. 
He paused a moment before Dolph ; then spitting a discharge 
of tobacco-juice on his well-blacked boots, and giving a con- 
temptuous umph, he walked on. Again he stopped before 
Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, dirty hand, 
and drew the girl towards him ; passed it over her neck and 
bust, felt her arms, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her 
back against her mother, whose patient face showed the suf- 
fering she had been going through at every motion of the 
hideous stranger. 

The girl was frightened, and began to cry. 

" Stop that, you minx ! " said the salesman ; "no whimp- 
ering here, — the sale is going to begin." And accordingly 
the sale begun. 

Adolph was knocked off, at a good sum, to the young gen- 
tleman who had previously stated his intention of buying 
him ; and the other servants of the St. Clare lot went to 
various bidders. 


" Now, up with you, boy ! d 'ye hear ? " said the auction- 
eer to Tom. 

Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks 
round all seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise, — 
the clatter of the salesman crying off his qualifications in 
French and. English, the quick fire of French and English 
bids ; and almost in a moment came the final thump of the 
hammer, and the clear ring on the last syllable of the word 
"dollars" as the auctioneer announced his price, and Tom 
was made over. — He had a master ! 

He was pushed from the block ; — the short, bullet-headed 
man seizing him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one 
side, saying, in a harsh voice, " Stand there, yon ! " 

Tom hardly realized anything ; but still the bidding went 
on, — rattling, clattering, now French, now English. Down 
goes the hammer again, — Susan is sold ! She goes down 
from the block, stops, looks wistfully back, — her daughter 
stretches her hands towards her. She looks with agony ii? 
the face of the man who has bought her, — a respectable mid- 
dle-aged man, of benevolent countenance. 

"0, Mas'r, please do buy my daughter ! " 

"I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't afford it ! " said the 
gentleman, looking, with painful interest, as the young gir) 
mounted the block, and looked around her with a frightened 
and timid glance. 

The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless 
cheek, her eye has a feverish fire, and her mother groans 
to see that she looks more beautiful than she ever saw ^er 
before. The auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates 
volubly in mingled French and English, and bids rise in 
rapid succession. 

"I'll do anything in reason," said the benevolent-looking 


gentleman, pressing in and joining with the bids. In a few 
moments they have run beyond his purse. He is silent ; the 
auctioneer grows warmer ; but bids gradually drop off. It 
lies now between an aristocratic old citizen and our bullet- 
headed acquaintance. The citizen bids for a few turns, con- 
temptuously measuring his opponent; but the bullet-head 
has the advantage over him, both in obstinacy and concealed 
length of purse, and the controversy lasts but a moment ; the 
hammer falls, — he has got the girl, body and soul, unless 
God help her ! 

Her master is Mr. Legree, who owns a cotton plantation 
on the Red river. She is pushed along into the same lot with 
Tom and two other men, and go*3s off, weeping as she goes. 

The benevolent gentleman is sorry ; but, then, the thing 
happens every day ! One sees girls and mothers crying, at 
these sales, always! it can't be helped, &c. ; and he walks 
off, with his acquisition, in another direction. 

Two days after, the Lwyer of the Christian firm of B. & 
Co., New York, sent on their money to them. On the 
reverse of that draft, so obtained, let them write these words 
of the great Paymaster, to whom they shall make up their 
account in a future day: " When he maketh inquisition 
for blood, he forgetteth not the cry of the humble! " 




"Thou art of purer eyes than to behold evil, and canst not look upon 
iniquity : wherefore lookest thou upon them that deal treacherously, and 
holdest thy tongue when the wicked devoureth the man that is more right 
eous than he ?" — Hab. 1 : 13. 

On the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Red river, 
Tom sat, — chains on his wrists, chain's on his feet, and a 
weight heavier than chains lay on his heart. All had faded 
from his sky, — moon and star ; all had passed by him, as 
<&he trees and banks were now passing, to return no more. 
Kentucky home, with wife and children, and indulgent 
owners; St. Clare home, with all its refinements and splen- 
dors ; the golden head of Eva, with its saint-like eyes ; the 
proud, gay, handsome, seemingly careless, yet ever-kind St. 
Clare ; hours of ease and indulgent leisure, — all gone ! and 
in place thereof, what remains ? 

It is one of the bitterest apportionments of a lot of slavery, 
that the negro, sympathetic and assimilative, after acquiring, 
m a refined family, the tastes and feelings which form the 
atmosphere of such a place, is not the less liable to become 
the bond-slave of the coarsest and most brutal, — just as a 
chair or table, which once decorated the superb saloon, comes, 
at last, battered and defaced, to the bar-room of some filthy 
tavern, or some low haunt of vulgar debauchery. The great 
difference is, that the table and chair cannot feel, and the 
man can; for even a legal enactment that he shall be 


' taken, reputed, adjudged in law, to be a chattel personal/' 
cannot blot out his soul, with its own private little world of 
memories, hopes, loves, fears, and desires. 

Mr. Simon Legree, Tom's master, had purchased slaves at 
one place and another, in New Orleans, to the number of 
eight, and driven them, handcuffed, in couples of two and two, 
down to the good steamer Pirate, which lay at the levee, 
ready for a trip up the Red river. 

Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, 
he came round, with that air of efficiency which ever char- 
acterized him, to take a review of them. Stopping opposite 
to Tom, who had been attired for sale in his best broadcloth 
suit, with well-starched linen and shining boots, he briefly 
expressed himself as follows : 

" Stand up." 

Tom stood up. 

" Take off that stock ! " and, as Tom, encumbered by his 
fetters, proceeded to do it, he assisted him, by pulling it, with 
no gentle hand, from his neck, and putting it in his pocket. 

Legree now turned to Tom's trunk, which, previous to this, 
he had been ransacking, and, taking from it a pair of old 
pantaloons and a dilapidated coat, which Tom had been wont 
to put on about his stable- work, he said, liberating Tom's 
hands from the handcuffs, and pointing to a recess in among 
the boxes, 

"You go there, and put these on." 

Tom obeyed, and in a few moments returned. 

" Take off your boots," said Mr. Legree. 

Tom did so. 

" There," said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse, 
stout shoes, such as were common among the slaves, "put 
these on." 

VOL. II. 15 


In Tom's hurried exchange, he had not forgotten to trans- 
fer his cherished Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so ; 
for Mr. Legree, having refitted Tom's handcuffs, proceeded 
deliberately to investigate the contents of his pockets. He 
drew out a silk handkerchief, and put it into his own pocket. 
Several little trifles, which Tom had treasured, chiefly because 
they had amused Eva, he looked upon with a contemptuous 
grunt, and tossed them over his shoulder into the river. 

Tom's Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he ha^ 
forgotten, he now held up and turned over. 

u Humph! pious, to be sure. So, what's yer name,— 
you belong to the church, eh? " 

"Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, firmly. 

" Well, I'll soon have thai out of you. I have none o' 
yer bawling, praying, singing niggers . on my place ; so 
remember. Now, mind yourself," he said, with a stamp and 
a fierce glance of his gray eye, directed at Tom, u Fm your 
church now ! You understand, — you 've got to be as / say." 

Something within the silent black man answered No ! and, 
as if repeated by an invisible voice, came the words of an old 
prophetic scroll, as Eva had often read them to him, — " Fear 
not ! for I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by my 
name. Thou art mine ! " 

But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he 
never shall hear. He only glared for a moment on the 
downcast face of Tom, and walked off. He took Tom's trunk, 
which contained a very neat and abundant wardrobe, to the 
forecastle, where it was soon surrounded by various hands of 
the boat. With much laughing, at the expense of niggers 
who tried to be gentlemen, the articles very readily were sold 
to one and another, and the empty trunk finally put up at auc- 
tion. It was a good joke, they all thought, especially to see 


how Tom looked after his things, as they were going this way 
and that ; and then the auction of the trunk, that was fun- 
nier than all, and occasioned abundant witticisms. 

This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up again to 
his property. 

" Now, Tom, I 've relieved you of any extra baggage, 
you see. Take mighty good care of them clothes. It '11 be 
long enough 'fore you get more. I go in for making niggers 
careful; one suit has to do for one year, on my place." 

Simon next walked up to the place where Emmeline was 
sitting, chained to another woman. 

"Well, my dear," he said, chucking her under the chin, 
" keep up your spirits." 

The involuntary look of horror, fright and aversion, with 
"Which the girl regarded him, did not escape his eye. He 
frowned fiercely. 

" None o' your shines, gal ! you 's got to keep a pleasant 
face, when I speak to ye, — d'ye hear 1 And you, you old 
yellow poco moonshine ! " he said, giving a shove to the 
mulatto woman to whom Emmeline was chained, " don't you 
carry that sort of face ! You 's got to look chipper, I tell 


" I say, all on ye," he said retreating a pace or two back, 
" look at me, — look at me, — look me right in the eye,— 
straight, now ! " said he, stamping his foot at every pause. 

As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to the 
glaring greenish-gray eye of Simon. 

" Now," said he, doubling his great, heavy fist into some- 
thing resembling a blacksmith's hammer, "d'ye see this fist'? 
Heft it ! " he said, bringing it down on Tom's hand. "Look 
at these yer bones ! Well, I tell ye this yer fist has got as 
hard as iron knocking down niggers. I never see the 


nigger, yet, I couldn't bring down with one crack," said he, 
bringing his fist down so near to the face of Tom that he winked 
and drew back. " I don't keep none o' yer cussed overseers; 
I does my own overseeing ; and I tell you things is seen to. 
You 's every one on ye got to toe the mark, I tell ye ; quick, 
— straight, — the moment I speak. That 's the way to keep 
in with me. Ye won't find no soft spot in me, nowhere. 
So, now, mind yerselves ; for I don't show no mercy ! " 

The women involuntarily drew in their breath, and the 
whole gang sat with downcast, dejected faces. Meanwhile, 
Simon turned on his heel, and marched up to the bar of the 
boat for a dram. 

" That's the way I begin with my niggers," he said, to a 
gentlemanly man, who had stood by him during his speech. 
"It's my system to begin strong, — just let 'em know what 
to expect." 

" Indeed ! " said the stranger, looking upon him with the 
curiosity of a naturalist studying some out-of-the-way speci- 

" Yes, indeed. I 'm none o' yer gentlemen planters, with 
lily fingers, to slop round and be cheated by some old cuss of 
an overseer ! Just feel of my knuckles, now ; look at my 
fist. Tell ye, sir, the flesh on 't has come jest like a stone, 
practising on niggers, — feel on it." 

The stranger applied his fingers to the implement in ques- 
tion, and simply said, 

'"Tis hard enough ; and, I suppose," he added, " practice 
has made your heart just like it." 

" Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty 
laugh. " I reckon there 's as little soft in me as in any one 
e;oing. Tell you, nobody comes it over me ! Niggers never 


gets round me, neither with squalling nor soft soap, — that 's 
a fact." 

'■ You have a fine lot there." 

<{ Heal," said Simon. " There 's that Tom, they telled me 
he was suthin' uncommon. I paid a little high for him, tendin' 
him for a driver and a managing chap ; only get the notions 
out that he 's larnt by bein' treated as niggers never ought to 
be, he '11 do prime ! The yellow woman I got took in in. I 
rayther think she's sickly, but I shall put her through for 
what she 's worth ; she may last a year or two. I don't go 
for savin' niggers. Use up, and buy more, 's my way ; — 
makes you less trouble, and I 'm quite sure it comes cheaper 
in the end ; " and Simon sipped his glass. 

"And how long do they generally last?" said the 

" Well, donno ; 'cordin' as their constitution is. Stout 
fellers last six or seven years ; trashy ones gets worked up in 
two or three. I used to, when I fust begun, have consider- 
able trouble fussin' with 'em and trying to make 'em hold 
out, — doctorin' on 'em up when they's sick, and givin' on 
'em clothes and blankets, and what not, tryin' to keep 'em 
all sort o' decent and comfortable. Law, 't was n't no sort o' 
use ; I lost money on 'em, and 't was heaps o' trouble. Now, 
you see, I just put 'em straight through, sick or well. When 
one nigger's dead, I buy another; and I find it comes cheaper 
and easier, every way." 

The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a 
gentleman, who had been listening to the conversation with 
repressed uneasiness. 

" You must not take that fellow to be any specimen of 
Southern planters," said he. 

vol. ir. 15* 


"I should hope not," said the young gentleman, with 

"He is a mean, low, brutal fellow ! " said the other. 

"And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of 
human beings subject to his absolute will, without even a 
shadow of protection ; and, low as he is, you cannot say that 
there are not many such." 

"Well," said the other, "there are also many considerate 
and humane men among planters." 

" Granted," said the young man ; " but, in my opinion, it is 
you considerate, humane men, that are responsible for all the 
brutality and outrage wrought by these wretches ; because, 
if it were not for your sanction and influence, the whole 
system could not keep foot-hold for an hour. If there were 
no planters except such as that one," said he, pointing with 
his finger to Legree, who stood with his back to them, " the 
whole thing would go down like a mill-stone. It is your 
respectability and humanity that licenses and protects his 

"You certainly have a high opinion of my good nature," 
said the planter, smiling ; ' { but I advise you not to talk quite 
so loud, as there are people on board the boat who might not 
be quite so tolerant to opinion as I am. You had better wait 
till I get up to my plantation, and there you may abuse us all, 
quite at your leisure." 

The young gentleman colored and smiled, and the two 
were soon busy in a game of backgammon. Meanwhile, 
another conversation was going on in the lower part of the 
boat, between Emmeline and the mulatto woman with whom 
she was confined. As was natural, they were exchanging 
with each other some particulars of their history. 

" Who did you belong to ? " said Emmeline. 


" Well, my Mas'r was Mr. Ellis, — lived on Levee-street. 
P'raps you 've seen the house." 

" Was he good to you? " said Emmeline. 

" Mostly, till he tuk sick. He 's lain sick, off and on, 
more than six months, and been orful oneasy. 'Pears like 
he warnt willin' to have nobody rest, day nor night ; and got 
so curous, there could n't nobody suit him. 'Pears like he 
just grew crosser, every day ; kep me up nights till I got 
farly beat out, and could n't keep awake no longer ; and 
cause I got to sleep, one night, Lors, he talk so orful to me, 
and he tell me he 'd sell me to just the hardest master he 
could find ; and he 'd promised me my freedom, too, when he 

" Had you any friends ? " said Emmeline. 

"Yes, my husband, — he's a blacksmith. Mas'r gen'ly 
hired him out. They took me off so quick, I did n't even 
have time to see him ; and I 's got four children. 0, "dear 
me ! " said the woman, covering her face with her hands. 

It is a natural impulse, in every one, when they hear a tale 
of distress, to think of something to say by way of consola- 
tion. Emmeline wanted to say something, but she could not 
think of anything to say. What was there to be said 1 As 
by a common consent, they both avoided, with fear and 
dread, all mention of the horrible man who was now their 

True, there is religious trust for even the darkest hour 
The mulatto woman was a member of the* Methodist church, 
and had an unenlightened but very sincere spirit of piety, 
Emmeline had been educated much more intelligently, — 
taught to read and write, and diligently instructed in the 
Bible, by the care of a faithful and pious mistress ; yet, would 
it not try the faith of the firmest Christian, to find them- 


selves abandoned, apparently, of God, in the grasp of ruth- 
less violence ? How much more must it shake the faith of 
Christ's poor little ones, weak in knowledge and tender in 
years ! 

The boat moved on, — freighted with its weight of sorrow 
— up the red, muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt, 
tortuous windings of the Red river; and sad eyes gazed 
wearily on the steep red-clay banks, as they glided by in 
dreary sameness. At last the boat stopped at a small town, 
and Legree, with his party, disembarked. 



" The dark places of the earth are full of the habitations of cruelty." 

Trailing wearily behind a rude wagon, and over a ruder 
road, Tom and his associates faced onward. 

In the wagon was seated Simon Legree; and the two 
women, still fettered together, were stowed away with some 
baggage in the back part of it, and the whole company were 
seeking Legree' s plantation, which lay a good distance off. 

It was a wild, forsaken road, now winding through dreary 
pine barrens, where the wind whispered mournfully, and now 
over log causeways, through long cypress swamps, the 
doleful trees rising out of the slimy, spongy ground, hung 
with long wreaths of funereal black moss, while ever and 
anon the loathsome form of the moccasin snake might be seen 
sliding among broken stumps and shattered branches that lay 
here and there, rotting in the water. 


It is disconsolate enough, this riding, to the stranger, who, 
with well-filled pocket and well-appointed horse, threads the 
lonely way on some errand of business ; but wilder, drearier, 
to the man enthralled, whom every weary step bears further 
from all that man loves and prays for. 

So one should have thought, that witnessed the sunken 
and dejected expression on those dark faces; the wistful, 
patient weariness with which those sad eyes rested on object 
after object that passed them in their sad journey. 

Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasion- 
ally pulling away at a flask of spirit, which he kept in his 

" I say, you! " he said, as he turned back and caught a 
glance at the dispirited faces behind him! "Strike up a 
song, boys, — come ! " 

The men looked at each other, and the lc come" was 
repeated, with a smart crack of the whip which the driver 
carried in his hands. Tom began a Methodist hymn, 

" Jerusalem, my happy home, 
Name ever dear to me ! 
When shall my sorrows have an end, 
Thy joys when shall — ' ' 

" Shut up, you black cuss ! " roared Legree; " did ye think 
I wanted any o' yer infernal old Methodism 1 I say, tune 
up, now, something real rowdy, — quick ! " 

One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning 
Bongs, common among the slaves. 

" Mas'r see'd me cotch a coon, 
High boys, high ! 
He laughed to split, — d' ye see the moon, 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! boys, ho ! 
Ho! yo! hi — e! oh!" 


The singer appeared to make up the song to his own 
pleasure, generally hitting on rhyme, without much attempt 
at reason ; and all the party took up the chorus, at intervals, 

" Ho ! ho ! ho ! boys, ho ! 
High — e — oh ! high — e — oh!" 

It was sung very boisterously, and with a forced attempt 
at merriment ; but no wail of despair, no words of impas- 
sioned prayer, could have had such a depth of woe in them 
as the wild notes of the chorus. As if the poor, dumb heart, 
threatened, — prisoned, — took refuge in that inarticulate sanc- 
tuary of music, and found there a language in which to 
breathe its prayer to God ! There was a prayer in it, which 
Simon could not hear. He only heard the boys singing 
noisily, and was well pleased; he was making them "'keep 
up their spirits." 

" Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, and 
laying his hand on her shoulder, " we 're almost home ! " 

When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terri- 
fied ; but when he laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now 
did, she felt as if she had rather he would strike her. The 
expression of his eyes made her soul sick, and her flesh creep. 
Involuntarily she clung closer to the mulatto woman by her 
side, as if she were her mother. 

"You didn't ever wear ear-rings," he said, taking hold 
of her small ear with his coarse fingers. 

" No, Mas'r ! " said Emmeline, trembling and looking 

" Well, I'll give you a pair, when we get home, if you 're 
a good girl. You need n't be so frightened ; I don't mean to 
make you work very hard. You '11 have fine times with me, 
and live like a lady, — only be a good girl." 


Legree had been drinking to that degree that -he was 
inclining to be very gracious ; and it was about this time that 
the enclosures of the plantation rose to view. The estate had 
formerly belonged to a gentleman of opulence and taste, who 
had bestowed some considerable attention to the adornment 
of his grounds. Having died insolvent, it had been pur- 
chased, at a bargain, by Legree, who used it, as he did every- 
thing else, merely as an implement for money-making. The 
place had that ragged, forlorn appearance, which is always 
produced by the evidence that the care of the former owner 
has been left to go to utter decay. 

What was once a smooth-shaven lawn before the house, 
dotted here and there with ornamental shrubs, was now 
covered with frowsy tangled grass, with horse-posts set up, 
here and there, in it, where the turf was stamped away, and the 
ground littered with broken pails, cobs of corn, and other slov- 
enly remains. Here and there, a mildewed jessamine or honey- 
suckle hung raggedly from some ornamental support, which 
had been pushed to one side by being used as a horse-post. 
"What once was a large garden was now all grown over with 
weeds, through which, here and there, some solitary exotic 
reared, its forsaken head. What had been a conservatory 
had now no window-sashes, and on the mouldering shelves 
stood some dry, forsaken flower-pots, with sticks in them, 
whose dried leaves showed they had once been plants. 

The wagon rolled up a weedy gravel walk, under a noble 
avenue of China trees, whose graceful forms and ever- 
springing foliage seemed to be the only things there that 
neglect could not daunt or alter, — like noble spirits, so deeply 
rooted in goodness, as to flourish and grow stronger amid 
discouragement and decay. 

The house had been large and handsome. It was built in 


a manner common at the South ; a wide verandah of two 
stories running round every part of the house, into which 
every outer door opened, the lower tier being supported by 
brick pillars. 

But the place looked desolate and uncomfortable; some 
windows stopped up with boards, some with shattered panes, 
and shutters hanging by a single hinge, — all telling of coarse 
neglect and discomfort. 

Bits of board, straw, old decayed barrels and boxes, gar- 
nished the ground in all directions ; and three or four fero- 
cious-looking dogs, roused by the sound of the wagon-wheels, 
eame tearing out, and were with difficulty restrained from 
laying hold of Tom and his companions, by the effort o; the 
ragged servants who came after them. 

" Ye see what ye 'd get ! " said Legree, caressing the dogs 
with grim satisfaction, and turning to Tom and his companions. 
" Ye see what ye'd get, if ye try to run off. These yer 
dogs has been raised to track niggers ; and they 'd jest as 
soon chaw one on ye up as eat their supper. So, mind yer- 
self ! How now, Sambo ! " he said, to a ragged fellow, with- 
out any brim- to his hat, who was officious in his attentions. 
H How have things been going?" 

" Fust rate, Mas'r." 

" Quimbo," said Legree to another, who was making zeal- 
ous demonstrations to attract his attention, " ye minded what 
I tolled ye?" 

" Guess I did, didn't I?" 

These two colored men were the two principal hands on 
the plantation. Legree had trained them in savageness and 
brutality as systematically as he had his bull-dogs ; and, by 
long practice in hardness and cruelty, brought their whole 
nature to about the same range of capacities. It is a com- 


mon remark, and one that is thought to militate strongly 
against the character of the race, that the negro overseer is 
always more tyrannical and cruel than the white one. This 
is simply saying that the negro mind has been more crushed 
and debased than the white. It is no more true of this race 
than of every oppressed race, the world over. The slave is 
always a tyrant, if he can get a chance to be one. 

Legree, like some potentates we read of in history, governed 
his plantation by a sort of resolution of forces. Sambo and 
Quimbo cordially hated each other ; the plantation hands, one 
and all, cordially hated them ; and, by playing off one against 
another, he was pretty sure, through one or the other of the 
three parties, to get informed of whatever was on foot in the 

Nobody can live entirely without social intercourse; and 
Legree encouraged his two black satellites to a kind of coarse 
familiarity with him, — a familiarity, however, at any 
moment liable to get one or the other of them into trouble ; 
for, on the slightest provocation, one of them always stood 
ready, at a nod, to be a minister of his vengeance on the other. 

As they stood there now by Legree, they seemed an apt 
illustration of the fact that brutal men are lower even than 
animals. Their coarse, dark, heavy features ; their great eyes, 
rolling enviously on each other ; their barbarous, guttural, 
half-brute intonation ; their dilapidated garments fluttering in 
the wind, — were all in admirable keeping with the vile and 
unwholesome character of everything about the place. 

"Here, you Sambo," said Legree, "take these yer boys 
down to the quarters ; and here 's a gal I 've get for you" 
said he, as he separated the mulatto woman from Emmeline, 
and pushed her towards him ; — "I promised to bring you one, 
you know."' 

VOL. II. 1G 


The woman gave a sudden start, and, drawing back, said, 

" 0, Mas'r ! I left my old man in New Orleans." 

" What of that, you ; won't you want one here? 

None o' your words, — go long ! " said Legree, raising his 

" Come, mistress," he said to Emmeline, "you go in here 
with me." 

A dark, wild face was seen, for a moment, to glance at 
the window of the house ; and, as Legree bpened the door, a 
female voice said something, in a quick, imperative tone. 
Tom, who was looking, with anxious interest, after Emme- 
line, as she went in, noticed this, and heard Legree answer, 
angrily, u You may hold your tongue ! I '11 do as I please, 
for all you ! " 

Tom heard no more ; for he was soon following Sambo to 
the quarters. The quarters was a little sort of street of rude 
shanties, in a row, in a part of the plantation, far off from the 
house. They had a forlorn, brutal, forsaken air. Tom's heart 
6unk when he saw them. He had been comforting himself 
With the thought of a cottage, rude, indeed, but one which 
he might make neat and quiet, and where he might have a 
shelf for his Bible, and a place to be alone out of his laboring 
hours. He looked into several ; they were mere rude shells, 
destitute of any species of furniture, except a heap of straw, 
foul with dirt, spread confusedly over the floor, which was 
merely the bare ground, trodden hard by the tramping of 
innumerable feet. 

" Which of these will be mine ? " said he, to Sambo, sub- 

"Dunno; ken turn in here, I spose," said Sambo; 
"spects thar 's room for another thar; thar 's a pretty smart 


heap o' niggers to each on 'em, now ; sure, I dunno what 1 's 
to do with more." 

At, *V> -AS* 4£f «4fc* 

*W TV "TV •Tv TT 

It was late in the evening when the weary occupants of 
the shanties came flocking home, — men and women, in soiled 
and tattered garments, surly and uncomfortable, and in no 
mood to look pleasantly on new-comers. The small village 
was alive with no inviting sounds; hoarse, guttural voices con- 
tending at the hand-mills where their morsel of hard corn 
was yet to be ground into meal, to fit it for the cake that 
was to constitute their only supper. From the earliest dawn 
of the day, they had been in the fields, pressed to work under 
the driving lash of the overseers ; for it was now in the very 
heat and hurry of the season, and no means was left untried to 
press every one up to the top of their capabilities. "True," 
says the negligent lounger; "picking cotton isn't hard work." 
Isn't it? And it isn't much inconvenience, either, to 
have one drop of water fall on your head; yet the worst 
torture of the inquisition is produced by drop after drop, drop 
after drop, falling moment after moment, with monotonous 
succession, on the same spot ; and work, in itself not hard, 
becomes so, by being pressed, hour after hour, with unvarying, 
unrelenting sameness, with not even the consciousness of free- 
will to take from its tediousness. Tom looked in vain among 
the gang, as they poured along, for companionable faces. He 
saw only sullen, scowling, imbruted men, and feeble, dis- 
couraged women, or women that were not women, — the 
strong pushing away the weak, — the gross, unrestricted ani- 
mal selfishness of human beings, of whom nothing good waa 
expected and desired ; and who, treated in every way like 
brutes, had sunk as nearly to their level as it was possible for 
human beings to do. To a late hour in the night the sound 


of the grinding was protracted ; for the mills were few in 
number compared with the grinder s, and the weary and 
feeble ones wers driven back by the strong, and came on last 
in their turn. 

"Ho yo ! " said Sambo, coming to the mulatto woman, 
and throwing down a bag of corn before her; "what a cuss 
yo name?" 

"Lucy," said the woman. 

"Wal, Lucy, yo my woman now. Yo grind dis yer corn, 
and get my supper baked, ye har ? " 

" I an't your woman, and I won't be ! " said the woman, 
with the sharp, sudden courage of despair; " you go long ! " 

"I'll kick yo, then! " said Sambo, raising his foot threat- 

"Ye may kill me, if ye choose, — the sooner the better! 
Wish't I was dead ! " said she. 

" I say, Sambo, you go to spilin' the hands, I'll tellMas'r 
o' you ? " said Quimbo, who was busy at the mill, from which 
he had viciously driven two or three tired women, who were 
waiting to grind their corn. 

"And I'll tell him ye won't let the women come to the 
mills, yo old nigger ! " said Sambo. " Yo jes keep to yo own 

Tom was hungry with his day's journey, and almost faint 
for want of food. 

" Thar, yo!" said Quimbo, throwing down a coarse bag, 
which contained a peck of corn ; " thar, nigger, grab, take car 
on't, — yo won't get no more, dis yer week." 

Tom waited till a late hour, to get a place at the mills ; and 
then, moved by the utter weariness of two women, whom he 
saw trying to grind their corn there, he ground for them, put 
together the decaying brands of the fire, where many had 


baked cakes before them, and then went about getting his 
own supper. It was a new kind of work there, — a deed of 
charity, small as it was ; but it woke an answering touch in 
their hearts, — an expression of womanly kindness came over 
their hard faces; they mixed his cake for him, and tended its 
baking ; and Tom sat down by the light of the fire, and drew 
out his Bible, — for he had need of comfort. 

" What's that 1 " said one of the women. . 

" A Bible," said Tom. 

" Good Lord ! han't seen un since I was in Kentuck." 

" Was you raised in Kentuck?" said Tom, with interest. 

"Yes, and well raised, too ; never 'spected to come to dis 
yer! " said the woman, sighing. 

" What 's dat ar book, any way ? " said the other woman. 

"Why, the Bible." 

" Laws a me ! what 's dat? " said the woman. 

" Do tell ! you never hearn on 't? " said the other woman. 
" I used to har Missis a readin' on't, sometimes, in Kentuck; 
but, laws o' me ! we don't har nothin' here but crackin' and 


"Bead a piece, anyways!" said the first woman, curi- 
ously, seeing Tom attentively poring over it. 

Tom read, — " Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are 
heavy laden, and I will give you rest." 

" Them's good words, enough," said the woman; "who 
says 'em?" 

" The Lord," said Tom. 

"I jest wish I know'd whar to find Him," said the woman. 

1 I would go ; 'pears like I never should get rested agin 

My flesh is fairly sore, and I tremble all over, every day, and 

Sambo 's allers a jawin' at me, 'cause I does n't pick faster ; 

and nights it 's most midnight 'fore I can get my supper ; and 

VOL. II. 16* 


den 'pears like I don't turn over and shut my eyes, 'fore I 
hear de horn blow to get up, and at it agin in de mornin'. 
If I knew whar de Lor was, I 'd tell him." 

" He 's here, he 's everywhere," said Tom. 

ct Lor, you an't gwine to make me believe dat ar ! I know 
de Lord an't here," said the woman ; " 't an't no use talking, 
though. I's jest gwine to camp down, and sleep while I 

The women went off to their cabins, and Tom sat alone, by 
the smouldering fire, that flickered up redly in his face. 

The silver, fair-browed moon rose in the purple sky, and 
looked down, calm and silent, as God looks on the scene of 
misery and oppression, — looked calmly on the lone black 
man, as he sat, with his arms folded, and his Bible on his knee. 

" Is God here? " Ah, how is it possible for the untaught 
heart to keep its faith, unswerving, in the face of dire misrule, 
and palpable, unrebuked injustice? In that simple heart 
waged a fierce conflict : the crushing sense of wrong, the fore- 
shadowing of a whole life of future misery, the wreck of all 
past hopes, mournfully tossing in the soul's sight, like dead 
corpses of wife, and child, and friend, rising from the dark 
wave, and surging in the face of the half-drowned mariner ! 
Ah, was it easy here to believe and hold fast the great pass- 
word of Christian faith, that " God is, and is the rewarder 
of them that diligently seek Him " ? 

Tom rose, disconsolate, and stumbled into the cabin that 
had been allotted to him. The floor was already strewn with 
weary sleepers, and the foul air of the place almost repelled 
him; but the heavy night-dews were chill, and his limbs 
weary, and, wrapping about him a tattered blanket, which 
formed his only bed-clothing, he stretched himself in the 
straw and fell asleep. 


In dreams, a gentle voice came over his ear ; he was sitting 
on the mossy seat in the garden by Lake Pontchartrain, and 
Eva, with her serious eyes bent downward, was reading to 
him from the Bible ; and he heard her read, 

" When thou passest through the waters, I will be with 
thee, and the rivers they shall not overflow thee ; when thou 
walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither 
shall the flame kindle upon thee ; for I am the Lord thy God, 
the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour." 

Gradually the words seemed to melt and fade, as in a 
divine music ; the child raised her deep eyes, and fixed them 
lovingly on him, and rays of warmth and comfort seemed to 
go from them to his heart ; and, as if wafted on the music, 
she seemed to rise on shining wings, from which flakes and 
spangles of gold fell off like stars, and she was gone. 

Tom woke. Was it a dream ? Let it pass for one. But 
who shall say that that sweet young spirit, which in life so 
yearned to comfort and console the distressed, was forbidden 
of God to assume this ministry after death ? 

It is a beautiful belief, 

That ever round our head 
Are hovering, on angel wings, 

The spirits of the dead. 




" And behold, the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no 
comforter ; and on the side of their oppressors there was power, but they 
had no ccmforter." — Eccl. 4 : 1. 

It took but a short time to familiarize Tom with all that 
was to be hoped or feared in his new way of life. He was 
an expert and efficient workman in whatever he undertook ; 
and was, both from habit and principle, prompt and faithful. 
Quiet and peaceable in his disposition, he hoped, by unremit- 
ting diligence, to avert from himself at least a portion of the 
evils of his condition. He saw enough of abuse and misery 
to make him sick and weary ; but he- determined to toil on, 
with religious patience, committing himself to Him that 
judgeth righteously, not without hope that some way of 
escape might yet be opened to him. 

Legree took silent note of Tom's availability. He rated 
him as a first-class hand ; and yet he felt a secret dislike to 
him, — the native antipathy of bad to good. He saw, plainly, 
that when, as was often the case, his violence and brutality 
fell on the helpless, Tom took notice of it ; for, so subtle 
is the atmosphere of opinion, that it will make itself felt, 
without words ; and the opinion even of a slave may annoy 
a master. Tom in various ways manifested a tenderness of 
feeling, a commiseration for his fellow-sufferers, strange and 
new to them, which was watched with a jealous eye by Le- 
gree. He had purchased Tom with a view of eventually 
making him a sort of overseer, with whom he might, at times, 


intrust his affairs, in short absences ; and, in his view, the 
first, second, and third requisite for that place, was hard- 
ness. Legree made up his mind, that, as Tom was not hard 
to his hand, he would harden him forthwith; and some few 
weeks after Tom had- been on the place, he determined to 
commence the process. 

One morning, when the hands were mustered for the field, 
Tom noticed, with surprise, a new comer among them, whose 
appearance excited his attention. It was a woman, tall and 
slenderly formed, with remarkably delicate hands and feet, 
and dressed in neat and respectable garments. By the ap- 
pearance of her face, she might have been between thirty-five 
and forty ; and it was a face that, once seen, could never be 
forgotten, — one of those that, at a glance, seem to convey to 
us an idea of a wild, painful, and romantic history. Her 
forehead was high, and her eyebrows marked with beautiful 
clearness. Her straight, well-formed nose, her finely-cut 
mouth, and the graceful contour of her head and neck, showed 
that she must once have been beautiful; but her face was 
deeply wrinkled with lines of pain, and of proud and bitter 
endurance. Her complexion was sallow and unhealthy her 
cheeks thin, her features sharp, and her whole form emaci- 
ated. But her eye was the most remarkable feature, — so 
large, SO heavily black, overshadowed by long lashes of equal 
darkness, and so wildly, mournfully despairing. There was a 
fierce pride and defiance in every line of her face, in every 
curve of the flexible lip, in every motion of her body ; but in 
her eye was a deep, settled night of anguish, — an expression 
so hopeless and unchanging as to contrast fearfully with the 
scorn and pride expressed by her whole demeanor. 

Where she came from, or who she was, Tom did not know. 
The first he did know, she was walking by his side, erect and 

190 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

I * — 

proud, in the dim gray of the dawn. To the gang, however, • 
she was known ; for there was much looking and turning of 
heads, and a smothered yet apparent exultation among the 
miserable, ragged, half-starved creatures by whom she was 

" Got to come to it, at last, — grad of it ! " said one. 

" He ! he ! he ! " said another; " you '11 know how good it 
is, Misse ! " 

" We '11 see her work ! " 

"Wonder if she'll get a cutting up, at night, like the rest 
of us!" 

"I 'd be glad to see her down for a flogging, I '11 bound ! " 
said another. 

The woman took no notice of these taunts, but walked on, 
with the same expression of angry scorn, as if she heard noth- 
ing. Tom had always lived among refined and cultivated 
people, and he felt intuitively, from her air and bearing, that 
she belonged to that class ; but how or why she could be fallen 
to those degrading circumstances, he could not tell. The 
woman neither looked at him nor spoke to him, though, all 
the way to the field, she kept close at his side. 

Tom was soon busy at his work ; but, as the woman was at 
no great distance from him, he often glanced an eye to her, at 
her work. He saw, at a glance, that a native adroitness and 
handiness made the task to her an easier one than it proved 
to many. She picked very fast and very clean, and with an 
air of scorn, as if she despised both the work and the dis- 
grace and humiliation of the circumstances in which she was 

In the course of the day, Tom was working near the mu- 
latto woman who had been bought in the same lot with him- 
self. She was evidently in a condition of great suffering, and 


Tom often heard her praying, as she wavered and trembled, 
and seemed about to fall down. Tom silently, as he came 
near to her, transferred several handfuls of cotton from his 
own sack to hers. 

" 0, don't, don't !" said the woman, looking surprised; 
" it '11 get you into trouble." 

Just then Sambo came up. He seemed to have a special 
spite against this woman ; and, flourishing his whip, said, in 
brutal, guttural tones, "What dis yer, Luce, — foolin' a'?" 
and, with the word, kicking the woman with his heavy cow- 
hide shoe, he struck Tom across the face with his whip. 

Tom silently resumed his task ; but the woman^ before at 
the last point of exhaustion, fainted. 

"I'll bring her to ! " said the driver, with a brutal grin. 
"I'll give her something better than camphire!" and, tak- 
ing a pin from his coat-sleeve, he buried it to the head in her 
flesh. The woman groaned, and half rose. " Get up, you 
beast, and work, will yer, or I '11 show yer a trick more ! " 

The woman seemed stimulated, for a few moments, to an 
unnatural strength, and worked with desperate eagerness. 

" See that you keep to dat ar," said the man, "or yer '11 
wish yer 's dead to-night, I reckin ! " 

"That I do now!" Tom heard her say; and again he 
heard her say, "0, Lord, how long! 0, Lord, why don't 
you help us?" 

At the risk of all that he might suffer, Tom came forward 
again, and put all the cotton in his sack into the woman's. 

" 0, you mustn't! you donno what they'll do to ye! " 
said the woman. 

" I can bar it ! " said Tom, " better 'n you ; " and he was 
at his place again. It passed in a moment. 

Suddenly, the stranger woman whom we have described, and 


who had, in the course of her work, come near enough to hear 
Tom's last words, raised her heavy black eyes, and fixed 
them, for a second, on him ; then, taking a quantity of cotton 
from he$ basket, she placed it in his. 

" You know nothing about this place," she said, "or you 
would n't have done that. When you 've been here a month, 
you'll be done helping anybody; you'll find it hard enough 
to take care of your own skin ! " 

"The Lord forbid, Missis! " said Tom, using instinctively 
to his field companion the respectful form proper to the high 
bred with whom he had lived. 

' "The Lord never visits these parts," said the woman, bit- 
terly, as she went nimbly forward with her work ; and again 
the scornful smile curled her lips. 

But the action of the woman had been seen by the driver, 
across the field ; and flourishing his whip, he came up to 

"'What! what!" he said to the woman, with an air of 
triumph, " you a foolin"? Go along ! yer under me now, — 
mind yourself, or yer '11 cotch it ! " 

A glance like sheet-lightning suddenly flashed from those 
black eyes ; and, facing about, with quivering lip and dilated 
nostrils, she drew herself up, and fixed a glance, blazing with 
rage and scorn, on the driver. 

" Dog ! " she said, " touch me, if you dare ! I've power 
enough, yet, to have you torn by the dogs, burnt alive, cut to 
inches ! I 've only to say the word ! " 

"What de devil you here for, den?" said the man, evi- 
dently cowed, and sullenly retreating a step or two. "Didn't 
mean no harm, Misse Cassy ! " 

"Keep your distance, then! " said the woman. And, in 


truth, the man seemed greatly inclined to attend to something 
at the other end of the field, and started off in quick time. 

The woman suddenly turned to her work, and labored with 
a despatch that was perfectly astonishing to Tom*. She 
seemed to work by magic. Before the day was through, her 
basket was filled, crowded down, and piled, and she had sev- 
eral times put largely into Tom's. Long after dusk, the 
whole weary train, with their baskets on their heads, defiled 
up to the building appropriated to the storing and weighing 
the cotton. Legree was there, busily conversing with the 
two drivers. 

" Dat ar Tom 's gwine to make a powerful deal o' trouble . 
kept a puttin' into Lucy's basket. — One o' these yer dat will 
get all der niggers to feelin' 'bused, if Mas'r don't wutch 
him !" said Sambo. 

"Hey-dey! The black cuss!" said Legree. "He'll 
have to get a breakin' in, won't he, boys? " 

Both negroes grinned a horrid grin, at this intimation. 

"Ay, ay! let Mas'r Legree alone, for breakin' in! De 
debil heself couldn't beat Mas'r at dat ! " said Quimbo. 

" Wal, boys, the best way is to give him the flogging to 
do, till he gets over his notions. Break him in ! " 

" Lord, Mas'r '11 have hard work to get dat out c' him ! " 

" It '11 have to come out of him, though ! " said Legree, as 
he rolled his tobacco in his mouth. 

"Now, tlar's Lucy, — de aggravatinest, ugliest wench on 
de place! " pursued Sambo. * 

" Take care, Sam ; I shall begin to think what '3 the rea- 
son for your spite agin Lucy." 

"Well, Mas'r knows she sot herself up agin Mas'r, and 
wouldn't have me, when he telled her to." 

"I'd a flogged her into 't," said Legree, spitting, "only 

vol. it. 17 


there's such a press o' work, it don't seem wuth a while to 
upset her jist now. She 's slender ; but these yer slender 
gals will bear half killin' to get their own way ! " 

" Wal, Lucy was real aggravatin' and lazy, sulkin' round; 
wouldn't do nothin', — and Tom he tuck up for her." 

"He did, eh! Wal, then, Tom shall have the pleasure 
of flogging her. It '11 be a good practice for him, and he 
won't put it on to the gal like you devils, neither." 

"Ho, ho! haw! haw! haw!" laughed both the sooty 
wretches ; and the diabolical sounds seemed, in truth, a not 
unapt expression of the fiendish character which Legree gave 

"Wal, but, Mas'r, Tom and Misse Oassy, and dey among 
'em, filled Lucy's basket. I ruther guess der weight 's in it, 
Mas'r ! " 

" / do the weighing ! " said Legree, emphatically. 

Both the drivers again laughed their diabolical laugh. 

" So ! " he added, " Misse Gassy did her day's work." 

"She picks like de debil and all his angels ! " 

" She 's got 'em all in her, I believe ! " said Legree; and, 
growling a brutal oath, he proceeded to the weighing-room. 

* * * * % # 

Slowly the weary, dispirited creatures, wound their way 
into the room, and, with crouching reluctance, presented their 
baskets to be weighed. 

Legree noted on a slate, on the side of which was pasted 
a list of names, the amount. 

Tom's basket was weighed and approved ; and he looked, 
with an anxious glance, for the success of the woman he had 

Tottering with weakness, she came forward, and delivered 


her basket. It was of full weight, as Legree well perceived; 
but, affecting anger, he said, 

"What, you lazy beast! short again! stand aside, you'll 
catch it, pretty soon ! " 

The woman gave a groan of utter despair, and sat down on 
a board. 

The person who had been called Misse Cassy now came 
forward, and, with a haughty, negligent air, delivered her 
basket. As she delivered it, Legree looked in her eyes with 
a sneering yet inquiring glance. 

She fixed her black eyes steadily on him, her lips moved 
slightly, and she said something in French. What it was, no 
one knew ; but Legree' s face became perfectly demoniacal in 
its expression, as she spoke ; he half raised his hand, as if to 
strike, — a gesture which she regarded with fierce disdain, as 
she turned and walked away. 

"And now," said Legree, " come here, you Tom. You see, 
I telled ye I didn't buy ye jest for the common work; I 
mean to promote ye, and make a driver of ye ; and to-night 
ye may jest as well begin to get yer hand in. Now, ye jest 
take this yer gal and flog her; ye've seen enough on't to 
know how." 

"I beg Mas'r's pardon," said Tom; "hopes Mas' r won't 
set me at that. It's what I an't used to, — never did, — 
and can't do, no way possible." 

"Ye '11 lam a pretty smart chance of things ye never 
did know, before I 've done with ye ! " said Legree, taking 
up a cow-hide, and striking Tom a heavy blow across the 
cheek, and following up the infliction by a shower of blows. 

"There!" he said, as he stopped tc rest; "now, will ye 
tell me ye can't do it? " 

"Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, putting up his hand, to wipe 


the blood, that trickled down his face. " I 'm willin' to work, 
night and day, and work while there 's life and breath in me ; 
but this yer thing I can't feel it right to do ; — and, Mas'r, I 
never shall do it, — never! " 

Tom had a remarkably smooth, soft voice, and a habitually 
respectful manner, that had given Legree an idea that he 
would be cowardly, and easily subdued. When he spoke 
these last words, a thrill of amazement went through every 
one; the poor woman clasped her hands, and said, u O 
Lord ! " and every one involuntarily looked at each other and 
drew in their breath, as if to prepare for the storm that was 
about to burst. 

Legree looked stupefied and confounded; but at last burst 
forth, — 

"What! ye blasted black beast ! tell me ye don't think it 
right to do what I tell ye ! What have any of you cussed 
cattle to do with thinking what 's right? I '11 put a stop to 
it ! Why, what do ye think ye are ? May be ye think ye 'r 
a gentleman, master Tom, to be a telling your master what 's 
right, and what an't ! So you pretend it 's wrong to flog the 
gal ! » 

"I think so, Mas'r," said Tom; "the poor crittur 's sick 
and feeble; 'twould be downright cruel, and it's what I 
never will do, nor begin to. Mas'r, if you mean to kill me, 
kill me ; but, as to my raising my hand agin any one here, 
I never shall, — I '11 die first ! " 

Tom spoke in a mild voice, but with a decision that could 
not be mistaken. Legree shook with anger ; his greenish 
eyes glared fiercely, and his very whiskers seemed to curl 
with passion ; but, like some ferocious beast, that plays with 
its victim before he devours it, he kept back his strong 


impulse to proceed to immediate violence, and broke out into 
bitter raillery. 

" Well, here 's a pious dog, at last, let down among us 
sinners ! — a saint, a gentleman, and no less, to talk to us 
sinners about our sins ! Powerful holy critter, he must be ! 
Here, you rascal, you make believe to be so pious, — did n J i 
you never hear, out of yer Bible, ' Servants, obey yer mas- 
ters ' ? An't I yer master ? Did n't I pay down twelve 
hundred dollars, cash, for all there is inside yer old cussed 
black shell ? An't yer mine, now, body and soul? " he said, 
giving Tom a violent kick with his heavy boot ; " tell me ! " 

In the very depth of physical suffering, bowed by brutal 
oppression, this question shot a gleam of joy and triumph 
through Tom's soul. He suddenly stretched himself up, and, 
looking earnestly to heaven, while the tears and blood that 
flowed down his face mingled, he exclaimed, 

" No ! no ! no ! my soul an't yours, Mas'r ! You have n't 
bought it, — ye can't buy it ! It 's been bought and paid for, 
by one that is able to keep it ; — no matter, no matter, you 
can't harm me!" 

" 1 can't ! " said Legree, with a sneer ; " we'll see, — we'll 
see ! Here, Sambo, Quimbo, give this dog such a breakin' 
in as he won't get over, this month ! " 

The two gigantic negroes that now laid hold of Tom, with 
fiendish exultation in their faces, might have formed no unapt 
personification of powers of darkness. The poor woman 
screamed with apprehension, and all rose, as by a general 
impulse, while they dragged him unresisting from the place. 

VOL. II. 17* 





And behold the tears of such as are oppressed; and on the side of their 
oppressors there was power. Wherefore I praised the dead that aie 
already dead more than the living that are yet alive. — Eccl. 4:1. 

It was late at night, and Tom lay groaning and bleeding 
alone, in an old forsaken room of the gin-house, among pieces 
of broken machinery, piles of damaged cotton, and other 
rubbish which had there accumulated. 

The night was damp and close, and the thick air swarmed 
with myriads of mosquitos, which increased the restless 
torture of his wounds ; whilst a burning thirst — a torture 
beyond all others — filled up the uttermost measure of physical 

" 0, good Lord ! Do look down, — give me the victory ! — 
give me the victory over all ! " prayed poor Tom, in his 

A footstep entered the room, behind him, and the light of 
a lantern flashed on his eyes. 

" Who 's there ? 0, for the Lord's massy, please give 
me some water ! " 

The woman Cassy — for it was she — set- down her lantern, 
and, pouring water from a bottle, raised his head, and gave 
him drink. Another and another cup were drained, with 
feverish eagerness. 

" Drink all ye want," she said ; " I knew how it would be 


It is n't the first time I 've been out in the night, carrying 
water to such as you." 

" Thank you. Missis," said Tom, when he had done 

" Don't call me Missis ! I'ma miserable slave, like your- 
self, — a lower one than you can ever be ! " said she, bitterly; 
"but now," said she, going to the door, and dragging in a 
small pallaise, over which she had spread linen cloths wet 
with cold water, ' ' try, my poor fellow, to roll yourself on to 

Stiff with wounds and bruises, Tom was a long time in 
accomplishing this movement; but, when done, he felt a 
sensible relief from the cooling application to his wounds. 

The woman, whom long practice with the victims of 
brutality had made familiar with many healing arts, went on 
to make many applications to Tom's wounds, by means of 
which he was soon somewhat relieved. 

" Now," said the woman, when she had raised his head on 
a roll of damaged cotton, which served for a pillow, " there 's 
the best I can do for you." 

Tom thanked her; and the woman, sitting down on the 
floor, drew up her knees, and embracing them with her arms, 
looked fixedly before her, with a bitter and painful expression 
of countenance. Her bonnet fell back, and long wavy 
streams of black hair fell around her singular and melan- 
choly face. 

''It's no use, my poor fellow ! " she broke $>ut, at last. 
" it 's of no use, this you 've been trying to do. You were a 
brave fellow, — you had the right on your side ; but it 's all 
in vain, and out of the question, for you to struggle. You 
are in the devil's hands ; — he is the strongest, and you must 
give up ! " 

200 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

Give up ! and, had not human weakness and physical 
agony whispered that, before ? Tom started ; for the bitter 
woman, with her wild eyes and melancholy voice, seemed to 
him an embodiment of the temptation with which he had 
been wrestling. 

" Lord! Lord!" he groaned, "how can I give 

" There 's no use calling on the Lord, — he never hears," 
said the woman, steadily ; " there is n't any God, I believe ; 
or, if there is, he 's taken sides against us. All goes against 
us, heaven and earth. Everything is pushing us into hell 
Why should n't we go 1 " 

Tom closed his eyes, and shuddered at the dark, atheistic 

"You see," said the woman, "you don't know anything 
about it; — I do. I've been on this place five years, body 
and soul, under this man's foot; and I hate him as I do the 
devil ! Here you are, on a lone plantation, ten miles from 
any other, in the swamps ; not a white person here, who could 
testify, if you were burned alive, — if you were scalded, 
cut into inch-pieces, set up for the dogs to tear, or hung up 
and whipped to death. There 's no law here, of G<5d or man, 
that can do you, or any one of us, the least good; and, this man ! 
there 's no earthly thing that he 's too good to do. I could 
make any one's hair rise, and their teeth chatter, if I should 
only tell what I've seen and been knowing to, here, — and 
it 's no use resisting ! Did I want to live with him ? Was n't 
I a woman delicately bred ; and he — God in heaven ! what 
was he, and is he ? And yet, I 've lived with him, these 
five years, and cursed every moment of my life, — night and 
day ! And now, he 's got a new one, — a young thing, only 
fifteen, and she brought up, she says, piously. Her good 


mistress taught her to read the Bible ; and she 's brought her 
Bible here — to hell with her ! " — and the woman laughed 
a wild and doleful laugh, that rung, with a strange, supernat- 
ural sound, through the old ruined shed. 

Tom folded his hands ; all was darkness and horror. 

" Jesus ! Lord Jesus ! have you quite forgot us poor 
eritturs ?" burst forth, at last ; — "help, Lord, I perish ! " 

The woman sternly continued : 

" And what are these miserable low dogs you work with, 
that you should suffer on their account ? Every one of them 
would turn against you, the first time they got a chance. 
They are all of 'em as low and cruel to each other as they 
can be ; there 's no use in your suffering to keep from hurt- 
ing them." 

" Poor eritturs ! " said Tom, — " what made 'em cruel ? — 
and, if I give out, I shall get used to't, and grow, little by little, 
just like 'em ! No, no, Missis ! I 've lost everything, — wife, 
and children, and home, and a kind Mas'r, — and he would 
have set me free, if he 'd only lived a week longer ; I 've lost 
everything in this world, and it 's clean gone, forever, — and 
now I can't lose Heaven, too ; no, I can't get to be wicked, 
besides all!" 

'•But it can't be that the Lord will lay sin to our account," 
said the woman; "he won't charge it to us, when we 're forced 
to it ; he '11 charge it to them that drove us to it." 

" Yes," said Tom j " but that won't keep us from growing 
wicked. If I get to be as hard-hearted as that ar' Sambo, 
and as wicked, it won't make much odds to me how I come 
so ; it 's the bem' so, — that ar 's what I'ma dreadin'." 

The woman fixed a wild and startled look on Tom, as if 
a new thought had struck her ; and then, heavily groaning 


a God a' mercy! you speak the truth! — — 
! " — and, with groans, she fell on the floor, like one crushed 
and writhing under the extremity of mental anguish. 

There was a silence, a while, in which the breathing of both 
parties could be heard, when Tom faintly said, "0, please, 

The woman suddenly rose up, with her face composed to 
its usual stern, melancholy expression. 

" Please, Missis, I saw ? em throw my coat in that ar' cor- 
ner,, and in my coat-pocket is my Bible ; — if Missis would 
please get it for me." 

Cassy went and got it. Tom opened, at once, to a heavily 
marked passage, much worn, of the last scenes in the life of 
Him by whose stripes we are healed. 

" If Missis would only be so good as read that ar', — it 's 
better than water." 

Cassy took the book, with a dry, proud air, and looked ovei 
the passage. She then read aloud, in a soft voice, and with a 
beauty of intonation that was peculiar, that touching account 
of anguish and of glory. Often, as she read, her voice fal- 
tered, and sometimes failed her altogether, when she would 
stop, with an air of frigid composure, till she had mastered 
herself. When she came to the touching words, c 'Father 
forgive them, for they know not what they do," she threw 
down the book, and, burying her face in the heavy masses of 
her hair, she sobbed aloud, with a convulsive violence. 

Tom was weeping, also, and occasionally uttering a smoth- 
ered ejaculation. 

" If we only could keep up to that ar' ! " said Tom ; — "ft 
seemed to come so natural to him, and we have to fight so 
hard for 't ! Lord, help us ! blessed Lord Jesus, do 
help us !" 


"Missis," said Tom, after a while, " I can see that, some 
how, you 're quite 'bove me in everything ; but there 's one 
thing Missis might learn even from poor Tom. Ye said the 
Lord took sides against us, because he lets us be 'bused and 
knocked round ; but ye see what come on his own Son, — ■ the 
blessed Lord of Glory, — wan't he allays poor ? and have we, 
any on us, yet come so low as he come? The Lord han't 
forgot us, — I 'm sartin' o' that ar'. If we suffer with him, we 
shall also reign, Scripture says ; but, if we deny Him, he also 
will deny us. Didn't they all suffer? — the Lord and all 
his ? It tells how they was stoned and sawn asunder, and 
wandered about in sheep-skins and goat-skins, and was desti- 
tute, afflicted, tormented. Sufferin' an't no reason to make 
us think the Lord 's turned agin us ; but jest the contrary, 
if only we hold on to him, and does n't give up to sin.' 7 

" But why does he put us where we can't help but sin ?" 
said the woman. 

" I think we can help it," said Tom. 

" You '11 see," said Cassy ; "what '11 you do? To-morrow 
they '11 be at you again. I know 'em ; I 've seen all their 
doings ; I can't bear to think of all they '11 bring you to ; — 
and they '11 make you give out, at last ! " 

"Lord Jesus!" said Tom, "you will take care of my 
soul ? Lord, do ! — don't let me give out ! " 

" dear ! " said Cassy ; " I 've heard all this crying and 
praying before ; and yet, they 've been broken down, and 
brought under. There 's Emmeline, she 's trying to hold 
on, and you 're trying, — but what use ? You must give up, 
or be killed by inches." 

"Well, then, I will die ! " said Tom. " Spin it out as long 
as they can, they can't help my dying, some time ! — and, after 


that, they can't do no more. I'm clar, I'm set! I know the 
Lord '11 help me, and bring me through." 

The woman did not answer ; she sat with her black eyes 
intently fixed on the floor. 

"May be it 's the way," she murmured to herself; "but 
those that have given up, there's no hope for them! — none! 
We live in filth, and grow loathsome, till we loathe ourselves ! 
And we long to die, and we don't dare to kill ourselves ! — 
No hope ! no hope ! no hope ! — this girl now, — just as old 
as I was ! 

"You see me now," she said, speaking to Tom very rap- 
idly ; " see what Lam ! Well, I was brought up in luxury ; 
the first I remember is, playing about, when I was a child, in 
splendid parlors ; — when I was kept dressed up like a doll, 
and company and visiters used to praise me. There was 
a garden opening from the saloon windows ; and there I used 
to play hide-and-go-seek, under the orange-trees, with my 
brothers and sisters. I went to a convent, and there I 
learned music, French and embroidery, and what not ; and 
when I was fourteen, I came out to my father's funeral. 
He died very suddenly, and when the property came to be 
settled, they found that there was scarcely enough to cover 
the debts ; and when the creditors took an inventory of the 
property, I was set down in it. My mother was a slave 
woman, and my father had always meant to set me free ; but 
he had not done it, and so. I was set down in the list. I ? d 
always known who I was, but never thought much about it. 
Nobody ever expects that a strong, healthy man is a going 
to die. My father was a well man only four hours before he 
died ; — it was one of the first cholera cases in New Orleans. 
The day after the funeral, my father's wife took her children, 
and went up to her father's plantation. I thought they 


treated me strangely, but did n't know. There was a young 
lawyer who they left to settle the business ; and he came every 
day, and was about the house, and spoke very politely to me. 
He brought with him, one day, a young man, whom I thought 
the handsomest I had ever seen. I shall never forgot that 
evening. I walked with him in the garden. I was lonesome 
and full of sorrow, and he was so kind and gentle to me ; and 
he told me that he had seen me before I went to the convent, 
and that he had loved me a great while, and that he would 
be my friend and protector; — in short, though he did n't tell 
me, he had paid two thousand dollars for me, and I was his 
property, — I became his willingly, for I loved him. Xoved ! " 
said the woman, stopping. " 0, how I did love that man ! 
How I love him now, — and always shall, while I breathe ! 
He was so beautiful, so high, so noble ! He put me into a 
beautiful house, with servants, horses, and carriages, and fur- 
niture, and dresses. Everything that money could buy, he 
gave me ; but I did n't set any value on all that, — I only 
cared for him. I loved him better than my God and my own 
soul ; and, u I tried, I could n't do any other way from what 
he wanted me to. 

" I wanted only one thing — I did want him to many me. 
I thought, if he loved me as he said he did, and if I was what 
he seemed to think I was, he would be willing to marry me 
and set me free. But he convinced me that it would be 
impossible ; and he told me that, if we were only faithful to 
each other, it was marriage before God. If that is true, 
was n't I that man's wife ? Was n't I faithful ? For seven 
years, did n't I study every look and motion, and only live 
and breathe to please him ? He had the yellow fever, and for 
twenty days and nights I watched with him. I alone, — and 
gave him all his medicine, and did everything for him ; and 

VOL. II. 18 

206 UNCLE tom's cabin : OR 

then he called me his good angel, and said I 'd saved his life 
We had two beautiful children. The first was a boy, and we 
called him Henry. He was the image of his father, — he had 
such beautiful eyes, such a forehead, and his hair hung all in 
curls around it ; and he had all his father's spirit, and his tal- 
ent, too. Little Elise, he said, looked like me. He used to 
tell me that I was the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, he 
was so proud of me and the children. He used to love to 
have me dress them up, and take them and me about in an 
open carriage, and hear the remarks that people would make 
on us ; and he used to fill my ears constantly with the fine 
things that were said in praise of me and the children. 0, 
those were happy days ! I thought I was as happy as any 
one could be ; but then there came evil times. He had a 
cousin come to New Orleans, who was his particular friend, — 
he thought all the world of him ; — but, from the first time I 
saw him, I couldn't tell why, I dreaded him; for I felt sure he 
was going to bring misery on us. He got Henry to going out 
with him, and often he would not come home nights till two or 
three o'clock. I did not dare say a word ; for Henry was so 
high-spirited, I was afraid to. He got him to the gaming- 
houses ; and he was one of the sort that, when he once got a 
going there, there was no holding back. And then he intro- 
duced him to another lady, and I saw soon that his heart 
was gone from me. He never told me, but I saw it, — I 
knew it, day after day, — I felt my heart breaking, but I 
could not say a word ! At this, the wretch offered to buy me 
and the children of Henry, to clear off his gambling debts, 
which stood in the way of his marrying as he wished ; — and 
he sold vs. He told me, one day, that he had business in the 
country, and should be gone two or three weeks. He spoke 
kinder than usual, and said he should come back; but it 


did n't deceive me. I knew that the time had come ; I was 
just like one turned into stone; I couldn't speak, nor shed a 
tear. He kissed me and kissed the children, a good many 
times, and went out. I saw him get on his horse, and I 
watched him till he was quite out of sight ; and then I fell 
down, and fainted. 

"Then he came, the cursed wretch! he came to take 
possession. He told me that he had bought me and my 
children ; and showed me the papers. I cursed him before 
God, and told him I 'd die sooner than live with him. 
^ ",' Just as you please,'" said he; ' but, if you don't behave 
reasonably, I '11 sell both the children, where you shall never 
see them again.' He told me that he always had meant to 
have me, from the first time he saw me ; and that he had 
drawn* Henry on, and got him in debt, on purpose to make 
him -willing to sell me. That he got him in love with 
another woman ; and that I might know, after all that, that he 
should not give up for a few airs and tears, and things of that 

" I gave up, for my hands were tied. He had my children ; 
— whenever I resisted his will anywhere, he would talk about 
selling them, and he made me as submissive as he desired. 
0, what a life it was ! to live with my heart breaking, every 
day, — to keep on, on, on, loving, when it was only misery; 
and to be bound, body and soul, to one I hated. I used to love 
to read to Henry, to play to him, to waltz with him, and sing to 
him ; but everything I did for -this one was a perfect drag, — yet 
I was afraid to refuse anything. He was very imperious, and 
harsh to the children. Elise was a timid little thing ; but 
Henry was bold and high-spirited, like his father, and he had 
never been brought under, in the least, by any one. He was 
always finding fault, and quarrelling with him ; and I used to 


live in daily fear and dread. I tried to make the chil 
respectful ; — I tried to keep them apart, for I held on t 
those children like death ; but it did no good. He sold bot h 
those children. He took me to ride, one day, and when I cam^ 
home, they were nowhere to be found ! He told me he had 
sold them; he showed me the money, the price of their 
blood. Then it seemed as if all good forsook me. I raved 
and cursed, — cursed God and man ; and, for a while, I 
believe, he really was afraid of me. But he did n't give up so. 
He told me that my children were sold, but whether I ever 
saw their faces again, depended on him ; and that, if I was n't^ 
quiet, they should smart for it. Well, you can do anything 
with a woman, when you 've got her children. He made me 
submit; he made me be peaceable; he flattered me with hopes 
that, perhaps, he would buy them back ; ,and so things went 
on, a week or two. One day, I was out walking, and passed 
by the calaboose; I saw a crowd about the gate, and heard a 
child's voice, — and suddenly my Henry broke away from two 
or three men who were holding him, and ran, screaming, and 
caught my dress. They came up to him, swearing dreadfully ; 
and one man, whose face I shall never forget, told him that 
he would n't get away so; that he was going with him into the 
calaboose, and he 'd get a lesson there he 'd never forget. 
I tried to beg and plead, — they only laughed ; the poor boy 
screamed and looked into my face, and held on to me, until, in 
tearing him off, they tore the skirt of my dress half away ; and 
they carried him in, screaming ' Mother ! mother ! mother ! ' 
There was one man stood there seemed to pity me. I offered 
him all the money I had, if he 'd only interfere. He shook 
his head, and said that the man said the boy had been impu- 
dent and disobedient, ever since he bought him ; that he was 
going to break him in, once for all. I turned and ran ; and 


every 3tep of the way, I thought that I heard him scream. 
I got into the house; ran, all out of breath, to the parlor, 
where I found Butler. I told him, and begged him to go and 
interfere. He only laughed, and told me the boy had got his 
deserts. He 'd got to be broken in, — the sooner the better ; 
' what did I expect ? ' he asked. 

"It seemed to me something in my head snapped, at that 
moment. I felt dizzy and furious. I remember seeing a great 
sharp bowie-knife on the table ; I remember something about 
catching it, and flying upon him; and then all grew dark, 
and I did n't know any more — not for days and days. 

" When I came to myself, I was in a nice room, — but not 
mine. An old black woman tended me; and a doctor came to 
see me, and there was a great deal of care taken of me. 
After a while, I found that he had gone away, and left me 
at this house to be sold ; and that 's why they took such 
pains with me. 

" I did n't mean to get well, and hoped I should n't ; but, 
in spite of me, the fever went off, and I grew healthy, and 
finally got up. Then, they made me dress up, every day ; 
and gentlemen used to come in and stand and smoke their 
cigars, and look at me, and ask questions, and debate my 
price. I was so gloomy and silent, that none of them wanted 
me. They threatened to whip me, if I was n't gayer, and 
didn't take some pains to make myself agreeable. At 
length, one day, came a gentleman named Stuart. He seemed 
to have some feeling for me ; he saw that something dreadful 
was on my heart, and he came to see me alone, a great many 
times, and finally persuaded me to tell him. He bought me, 
at last, and promised to do all he could to find and buy back my 
children. He went to the hotel where my Henry was ; they 
told him he had been sold to a planter up on Pearl river ; that 

vol. II. 18* 

210 UNCLE tom's cabin: ok, 

was the last that I ever heard. Then he found where my 
daughter was ; an old woman was keeping her. He offered an 
immense sum for her, but they would not sell her. Butler 
found out that it was for me he wanted her; and he sent 
me word that I should never have her. Captain Stuart was 
very kind to me ; he had a splendid plantation, and took me 
to it. In the course of a year, I had a son born. 0, that 
child ! — how I loved it ! How just like my poor Henry the 
little thing looked ! But I had made up my mind, — yes, I 
had. I would never again let a child live to grow up ! I took 
the little fellow in my arms, when he was two weeks old, and 
kissed him, and cried over him ; and then I gave him lauda- 
num, and held him close to my bosom, while he slept to death. 
How I mourned and cried over it ! and who ever dreamed 
that it was anything but a mistake, that had made me give it 
the laudanum 1 but it 's one of the few things that I 'm slad 
of, now. I am not sorry, to this day ; he, at least, is out of 
pain. What better than death could I give him, poor child ! 
After a while, the cholera came, and Captain Stuart died ; 
everybody died that wanted to live, — and I, — I, though I 
went down to death's door, — I lived! Then I was sold, and 
passed from hand to hand, till I grew faded and wrinkled, 
and I had a fever ; and then this wretch bought me, and 
brought me here, — and here I am ! " 

The woman stopped. She had hurried on through her 
story, with a wild, passionate utterance ; sometimes seeming 
to address it to Tom, and sometimes speaking as in a solilo- 
quy. So vehement and overpowering was the force with 
which she spoke, that, for a season, Tom was beguiled even 
from the pain of his wounds, and, raising himself on one 
elbow, watched her as she paced restlessly up and down, her 
long black hair swaying heavily about her, as she moved. 


" You tell me," she said, after a pause, "that there is a 
God, — a God that looks down and sees all these things. May 
be it 's so. The sisters in the convent used to tell me of a 
day of judgment, when everything is coming to light ; — won't 
there be vengeance, then ! 

" They think it 's nothing, what we suffer, — nothing, what 
our children suffer ! It 's all a small matter ; yet I 've walked 
the streets when it seemed as if I had misery enough in my 
one heart to sink the city. I 've wished the houses would 
fall on me, or the stones sink under me. Yes ! and, in the 
judgment day, I will stand up before God, a witness against 
those thh,t have ruined me and my children, body and 
soul ! 

" When I was a girl, I thought I was religious ; I used to 
love God and prayer. Now, I 'm a lost soul, pursued by 
devils that torment me day and night ; they keep pushing me 
on and on — and I '11 do it, too, some of these days ! " she 
said, clenching her hand, while an insane light glanced in her 
heavy black eyes. "I'll send him where he belongs, — a 
short way, too , — one of these nights, if they burn me alive 
for it ! " A wild, long laugh, rang through the deserted 
room, and ended in a hysteric sob ; she threw herself on the 
floor, in convulsive sobbings and struggles. 

In a few moments, the frenzy fit seemed to pass off; she 
rose slowly, and seemed to collect herself. 

"Can I do anything more for you, my poor fellow'?" 
she said, approaching where Tom lay: "shall I give you 
some more water ? " 

There was a graceful and compassionate sweetness in her 
voice and manner, as she said this, that formed a strange 
contrast with the former wildness. 


Tom drank the water, and looked earnestly and pitifully 
into her face. 

" 0, Missis, I wish you 'd go to him that can give you 
living waters ! " 

" Go to him ! Where is he? Who is he?" said Cassy. 

" Him that you read of to me, — the Lord." 

" I used to sse the picture of him, over the altar, when I 
was a girl," said Cassy, her dark eyes fixing themselves in 
an expression of mournful reverie; "but, he isn't here! 
there 's nothing here, but sin and long, long, long despair ! 
! " She laid her hand on her breast and drew in her breath, 
as if to lift a heavy, weight. 

Tom looked as if he would speak again ; but she cut him 
short, with a decided gesture. 

" Don't talk, my poor fellow. Try to sleep, if you can." 
And, placing water in his reach, and making whatever little 
arrangements for his comfort she could, Cassy left the 




" And slight, withal, may be the things that bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside forever; it may be a sound, 
A flower, the wind, the ocean, which shall wound, — 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we 're darkly bound.'* 
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Can. 4. 

The sitting-room of Legree's establishment was a large, 
long room, with a wide, ample fireplace. It had once 
been hung with a showy and expensive paper, which now 
hung mouldering, torn and discolored, from the damp walls. 
The place had that peculiar sickening, unwholesome smell, 
compounded of mingled damp, dirt and decay, which one 
often notices in close old houses. The wall-paper was defaced, 
in spots, by slops of beer and wine ; or garnished with chalk 
memorandums, and long sums footed up, as if somebody had 
been practising arithmetic there. In trie fireplace stood a 
brazier full of burning charcoal ; for, though the weather was 
not cold, the evenings always seemed damp and chilly in that 
great room; and Legree, moreover, wanted a place to light 
his cigars, and heat his water for punch. The ruddy glare 
of the charcoal displayed the confused and unpromising 
aspect of the room, — saddles, bridles, several sorts of harness, 
riding- whips, overcoats, and various articles of clothing, scat- 
tered up and down the room in confused variety ; and the 


dogs; of whom we have before spoken, had encamped them- 
selves among them, to suit their own taste and convenience. 

Legree was just mixing himself a tumbler of punch, pour- 
ing his hot water from a cracked and broken-nosed pitcher, 
grumbling, as he did so, 

" Plague on that Sambo, to kick up this yer row between 
me and the new hands ! The fellow won't be fit to work for 
a week, now, — right in the press of the season ! " 

" Yes, just like you," said a voice, behind his chair. It 
was the woman Casey, who had stolen upon his soliloquy. 

" Hah ! you she-devil ! you 've come back, have you? " 

"Yes, I have," she said, coolly; "come to have my own 
way, too ! " 

"You lie, you jade! I'll be up to my word. Either 
behave yourself, or stay down to the quarters, and fare and 
work with the rest." 

" I 'd rather, ten thousand times," said the woman, " live 
in the dirtiest hole at the quarters, than be under your 

" But you are under my hoof, for all that," said he, 
turning upon her, with a savage grin; "that's one comfort. 
So, sit down here on my knee, my clear, and hear to reason," 
said he, laying hold on her wrist. 

"Simon Legree, take care!" said the woman, with a 
sharp flash of her eye, a glance so wild and insane in its 
light as to be almost appalling. " You 're afraid of me, 
Simon," she said, deliberately ; " and you 've reason to be ! 
But be careful, for I 've got the devil in me! " 

The last words she whispered in a hissing tone, close to his 

" Get out ! I believe, to my soul, you have ! " said Legree, 
pushing her from him, and looking uncomfortably at her, 


''After all, Cassy," he said, " why can't you be friends with 
me, as you used to ?" 

"Used to!" said she, bitterly. She stopped short, — a 
world of choking feelings, rising in her heart, kept her silent. 

Cassy had always kept over Legree the kind of influence 
that a strong, impassioned woman can ever keep over the 
most brutal man ; but, of late, she had grown more and more 
irritable and restless, under the hideous yoke of her servi- 
tude, and her irritability, at times, broke out into raving 
insanity ; and this liability made her a solrt of object of dread 
to Legree, who had that superstitious ho*ror of insane per- 
sons which is common to coarse and uninstructed minds. 
When Legree brought Emmeline to the house, all the smoul- 
dering embers of womanly feeling flashed up in the worn 
heart of Cassy, and she took part with the girl ; and a fierce 
quarrel ensued between her and Legree. Legree, in a fury, 
swore she should be put to field service, if she would not bo 
peaceable. Cassy, with proud scorn, declared she would go 
to the field. And she worked there one day, as we have 
described, to show how perfectly she scorned the threat. 

Legree was secretly uneasy, all day ; for Cassy had an influ- 
ence over him from which he could not free himself. When 
she presented her basket at the scales, he had hoped for some 
concession, and addressed her in a sort of half conciliatory, 
half scornful tone ; and she had answered with the bitterest 

The outrageous treatment of poor Tom had roused her still 
more ; and she had followed Legree to the house, with no par- 
ticular intention, but to upbraid him for his brutality. 

"I wish, Cassy," said Legree, "you'd behave yourself 

" You talk about behaving decently ! And what have you 


been doing ? — you, who have n't even sense enough to keep 
from spoiling one of your best hands, right in the most press- 
ing season, just for your devilish temper ! " 

"I was a fool, it 's a fact, to let any such brangle come 
up," said Legree ; "but, when the boy set up his will, he 
had to be broke in." 

" I reckon you won't break him in ! " 

" Won't I?" said Legree, rising, passionately. "I 'd like 
to know if I won't ? He '11 be the first nigger that ever came 
it round me ! I '11 break every bone in his body, but he shall 
give up!" 

Just then the door opened, and Sambo entered. He came 
forward, bowing, and holding out something in a paper. 

" What 's that, you dog ?" said Legree. 
i " It 's a witch thing, Mas'r ! " 

" A what?" 

" Something that niggers gets from witches. Keeps 'em 
from feelin' when they 's flogged. He had it tied round his 
neck, with a black string." 

Legree, like most godless and cruel men, was superstitious. 
He took the paper, and opened it uneasily. 

There dropped out of it a silver dollar, and a long, shining 
curl of fair hair, — hair which, like a living thing, twined 
itself round Legree' s fingers. 

"Damnation !" he screamed, in sudden passion, stamping 
on the floor, and pulling furiously at the hair, as if it burned 
him. " Where did this come from 1 Take it off! — burn it 
up ! — burn it up ! " he screamed, tearing it off, and throwing 
it into the charcoal. u What did you bring it to me for ? " 

Sambo stood, with his heavy mouth wide open, a\id aghast 
with wonder ; and Cassy, who was preparing to leave the 


apartment, stopped, and looked at him in perfect amaze- 

" Don't you bring me any more of your devilish things ! ' ; 
said he, shaking his fist at Sambo, who retreated hastily 
towards the door ; and, picking up the silver dollar, he sent 
it smashing through the window-pane, out into the darkness. 

Sambo was glad to make his escape. When he was gone, 
Legree seemed a little ashamed of his fit of alarm. He sat 
doggedly down in his chair, and began sullenly sipping his 
tumbler of punch. 

Cassy prepared herself for going out, unobserved by him; 
and slipped away to minister to poor Tom, as we have already 

And what was the matter with Legree ? and what was 
there in a simple curl of fair hair to appall that brutal man, 
familiar with every form of cruelty 1 To answer this, we 
must carry the reader backward in his history. Hard and 
reprobate as the godless man seemed now, there had been a 
time when he had been rocked on the bosom of a mother. — 
cradled with prayers and pious hymns, — his now seared 
brow bedewed with the waters of holy baptism. In early 
childhood, a fair-haired woman had led him, at the sound of 
Sabbath bell, to worship and to pray. Far in New England 
that mother had trained her only son, with long, unwearied 
love, and patient prayers. Born of a hard-tempered.sire, on 
whom that gentle w T oman had w r asted a world of unvalued 
love, Legree had followed in the steps of his father. Bois- 
terous, unruly, and tyrannical, he despised all her counsel, 
and would none of her reproof; and, at an early age, broke 
from her, to seek his fortunes at sea. ■ He never came home 
but once, after ; and then, his mother, with the yearning of a 
heart that must love something, and has nothing else to love, 

VOL. II. 19 

218 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

clung to him, and sought, with passionate prayers and entrea- 
ties, to win him from a life of sin, to his soul's eternal good. 

That was Legree's day of grace ; then good angels called 
him ; then he was almost persuaded, and mercy held him 
by the hand. His heart inly relented, — there was a con- 
flict, — but sin got the victory, and he set all the force of his 
rough nature against the conviction of his conscience. He 
drank and swore, — was wilder and more brutal than ever. 
And, one night, when his mother, in the last agony of her 
despair, knelt at his feet, he spurned her from him, — threw 
her senseless on the floor, and, with brutal curses, fled to his 
ship. The next Legree heard of his mother was, when, one 
night, as he was carousing among drunken companions, a 
letter was put into his hand. He opened it, and a lock of 
long, curling hair fell from it, and twined about his fingers. 
The letter told him his mother was dead, and that, dying, she 
blest and forgave him. 

There is a dread, unhallowed necromancy of evil, that turns 
things sweetest and holiest to phantoms of horror and affright 
That pale, loving mother, — her dying prayers, her forgiving 
love, — wrought in that demoniac heart of sin only as a damn- 
ing sentence, bringing with it a fearful looking for of judgment 
and fiery indignation. Legree burned the hair, and burned 
the letter ; and when he saw them hissing and crackling in 
the flame, inly shuddered as he thought of everlasting fires. 
He tried to drink, and revel, and swear away the memory ; 
but often, in the deep night, whose solemn stillness arraigns 
the bad soul in forced communion with herself, he had seen 
that pale mother rising by his bedside, and felt the soft twin- 
ing of that hair around his fingers, till the cold sweat would 
roll down his face, and he would spring from his bed in hor- 
ror. Ye who have wondered to henr, in the same evangel, 


that God is love, and that God is a consuming fire, see ye not 
how, to the soul resolved in evil, perfect love is the most 
fearful torture, the seal and sentence of the direst despair ? 

"Blast it! " said Legree to himself, as he sipped his liquor; 
"where did he get that? If it didn't look just like — 
whoo ! I thought I 'd forgot that. Curse me, if I think 
there 's any such thing as forgetting anything, any how, — 
hang it ! I 'm lonesome ! I mean to call Em. She hates 
me — the monkey ! I don't care, — I '11 make her come ! " 

Legree stepped out into a large entry, which went up 
stairs, by what had formerly^been a superb winding stair- 
case ; but the passage-way was dirty and dreary, encumbered 
with boxes and unsightly litter. The stairs, uncarpeted, 
seemed winding up, in the gloom, to nobody knew where ! 
The pale moonlight streamed through a shattered fanlight 
over the door ; the air was unwholesome and chilly, like that 
of a vault. 

Legree stopped at the foot of the stairs, and heard a voice 
singing. It seemed strange and ghostlike in that dreary old 
house, perhaps because of the already tremulous state of his 
nerves. Hark ! what is it ? 

A wild, pathetic voice, chants a hymn common among the 
slaves : 

" there '11 be mourning, mourning, mourning, 
there '11 be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ ! " 

" Blast the girl ! " said Legree. " I '11 choke her. — Em ! 
Em ! " he called, harshly; but only a mocking echo from the 
walls answered him. The sweet voice still sung on : 

v o 

" Parents and children there shall part ! 
Parents and children there shall part ! 
Shall part to meet no more ! " 

220 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

And clear and loud swelled through the empty halls the 

(< there '11 be mourning, mourning, mourning, 

there '11 be mourning, at the judgment-seat of Christ ! " 

Legree stopped. He would have been ashamed to tell of 
it, but large drops of sweat stood on his forehead, his heart 
beat heavy and thick with fear ; he even thought he saw 
something white rising and glimmering in the gloom before 
him, and shuddered to think -what if the form of his dead 
mother should suddenly appear to him. 

"I know one thing," he said to himself, as he stumbled 
back in the sitting-room, and sat down ; " I '11 let that fellow 
alone, after this ! What did I want of his cussed paper 1 I 
b'lieve I am bewitched, sure enough ! I 've been shivering 
and sweating, ever since ! Where did he get that hair ? It 
could n't have been that ! I burnt that up, I know I did ! 
It would be a joke, if hair could rise from the dead ! " 

Ah, Legree ! that golden tress ivas charmed ; each hair 
had in it a spell of terror and remorse for thee, and was used 
by a mightier power to bind thy cruel hands from inflicting 
uttermost evil on the helpless ! 

" I say," said Legree, stamping and whistling to the dogs, 
" wake up, some of you, and keep me company !" but the 
dogs only opened one eye at him, sleepily, and closed it 


" I '11 have Sambo and Quimbo up here, to sing and dance 
one of their hell dances, and keep off these horrid notions," 
said Legree ; and, putting on his hat, he went on to the 
verandah, and blew a horn, with which he commonly sum- 
moned his two sable drivers. 

Legree was often "wont, when in a gracious humor, to get 


these two worthies into his sitting-room, and, after warming 
them up with whiskey, amuse himself by setting them to sing- 
ing, dancing or fighting, as the humor took him. 

It was between one and two o'clock at night, as Cassy was 
returning from her ministrations to poor Tom, that she heard 
the sound of wild shrieking, whooping, halloing, and singing, 
from the sitting-room, mingled with the barking of dogs, and 
other symptoms of general uproar. 

She came up on the verandah steps, and looked in. Legree 
and both the drivers, in a state of furious intoxication, were 
singing, whooping, upsetting chairs, and making all manner 
of ludicrous and horrid grimaces at each other. 

She rested her small, slender hand on the window-blind, 
and looked fixedly at them ; — there was a world of anguish, 
scorn, and fierce bitterness, in her black eyes, as she did so. 
i: Would it be a sin to rid the world of such a wretch?" 
she said to herself. 

She turned hurriedly away, and, passing round to a back 
door, glided up stairs, and tapped at Emmeline's door. 

VOL. II. 19* 




Cassy entered the room, and found Erameline sitting, pale 
with fear, in the furthest corner of it. As she came in, the 
girl started up nervously ; but, on seeing who it was, rushed 
forward, and catching her arm, said, " 0, Cassy, is it you 1 
I'mso glad you 've come ! I was afraid it was — . 0, you 
don't know what a horrid noise there has been, down stairs, 
all this evening ! " 

"I ought to know," said Cassy,. dryly. "I've heard it 
often enough." 

" Cassy ! do tell me, — could n't we get away from this 
place 1 I don't care where, — into the swamp among the 
snakes, — anywhere! Couldn't we get somewhere away 
from here V 

" Nowhere, but into our graves," said Cassy. 

" Did you ever try V 

"I've seen enough of trying, and what comes of it," said 

' 1 'd be willing to live in the swamps, and gnaw the bark 
from trees. I an't afraid of snakes ! I 'd rather have one 
near me than him," said Emmeline, eagerly. 

"There have been a good many here of your opinion," said 
Cassy ; " but you couldn't stay in the swamps, — you 'd be 
tracked by the dogs, and brought back, and then — -then — " 


" What would be do ?" said the girl, looking, with breath- 
less interest, into her face. 

"What wouldn't he do, you'd better ask," said Cassy. 
" He 's learned his trade well, among the pirates in the West 
Indies. You would n't sleep much, if I should tell you 
things I've seen, — things that he tells of, sometimes, for good 
jokes. I 've heard screams here that I have n't been able to 
get out of my head for weeks and weeks. There 's a place 
way out down by the quarters, where you can see a black, 
blasted tree, and the ground all covered with black ashes. 
Ask any one what was done there, and see if they will dare 
to tell you." 

" ! what do you mean V 9 

" 1 won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you, 
the Lord only knows what we may see to-morrow, if that 
poor fellow holds out as he 's begun." 

"Horrid!" said Emmeline, every drop of blood reced- 
ing from her cheeks. "0, Cassy, do tell me what I shall 
do ! " 

"What I've done. Do the best you can, — do what you 
must, — and make it up in hating and cursing." 

"He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy," 
said Emmeline ; " and I hate it so — " 

" You 'd better drink," said Cassy. " I hated it, too; and 
now I can't live without it. One must have something ; — 
things don't look so dreadful, when you take that." 

" Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing," 
said Emmeline. 

" Mother told you ! " said Cassy, with a thrilling and bit- 
ter emphasis on the word mother. "What use is it for 
mothers to say anything ? You are all to be bought and paid 
for, and your souls belong to whoever gets you. That 's the 

224 uncle roM : s cabin: or, 

. . .» — . — 

way it goes. I say, drink brandy ; drink all you can, and 
it '11 make things come easier." 

" 0, Cassy ! do pity me!" 

" Pity you ! — don't I ? Have n't I a daughter, — Lord 
knows where she is, and whose she is, now, — going the way 
her mother went, before her, I suppose, and that her children 
must go, after her ! There 's no end to the curse — forever !" 

" I wish I 'd never been born !,"• said Emmeline, wringing 
her hands. 

"That's an old wish with me," said Cassy. "I've got 
used to wishing that. I 'd die, if I dared to," she said, look- 
ing out into the darkness, with that still, fixed despair which 
was the habitual expression of her face when at rest. 

"It would be wicked to kill one's self," said Emmeline. 

"I don't know why, — no wickeder than things we live and 
do, day after day. But the sisters told me things, when I was 
in the convent, that make me afraid to die. If it would only 
be the end of us, why, then — " 

Emmeline turned away, and hid her face in her hands. 

While this conversation was passing in the chamber, Legree, 
overcome with his carouse, had sank to sleep in the room 
below. Legree was not an habitual drunkard. -His coarse, 
strong nature craved, and could endure, a continual stimula- 
tion, that would have utterly wrecked and crazed a finer one. 
But a deep, underlying spirit of cautiousness prevented his 
often yielding to appetite in such measure as to lose control 
of himself. 

This night, however, in his feverish efforts to banish from 
his mind those fearful elements of woe and remorse which 
woke within him, he had indulged more than common ; so 
that, when he had discharged his sable attendants, he fell 
heavily on a settle in the room, and was sound asleep. 


! how dares the bad soul to enter the shadowy world of 
sleep ? — that land whose dim outlines lie so fearfully near to 
the mystic scene of retribution ! Legree dreamed. In his 
heavy and feverish sleep, a veiled form stood beside him, and 
laid a cold, soft hand upon him. He thought he knew who 
it was ; and shuddered, with creeping horror, though the face 
was veiled. Then he thought he felt that hair twining 
round his fingers ; and then, that it slid smoothly round his 
neck, and tightened and tightened, and he could not draw his 
breath ; and then he thought voices ichispered to him, — 
whispers that chilled him with horror. Then it seemed to 
him he was on the edge of a frightful abyss, holding on and 
struggling in mortal fear, while dark hands stretched up, and 
were pulling him over ; and Cassy came behind him laughing, 
and pushed him. And then rose up that solemn veiled figure, 
and drew aside the veil. It was his mother ; and she turned 
away from him, and he fell down, down, down, amid a con- 
fused noise of shrieks, and groans, and shouts of demon 
laughter, — and Legree awoke. 

Calmly the rosy hue of dawn was stealing into the room. 
The morning star stood, with its solemn, holy eye of light, 
looking down on the man of sin, from out the brightening 
sky. 0; with what freshness, what solemnity and beauty, is 
each new day born ; as if to say to insensate man, " Behold ! 
thou hast one more chance f Strive for immortal glory ! " 
There is no speech nor language where this voice is not 
heard ; but the bold, bad man heard it not. He woke with 
an oath and a curse. What to him was the gold and purple, 
the daily miracle of morning ! What to him the sanctity 
of that star which the Son of God has hallowed as his own 
emblem 1 Brute-like, he saw without perceiving ; and, stum 


bling forward, poured out a tumbler of brandy, and drank 
half of it. 

" I 've bad a h — 1 of a night ! " he said to Cassy, who just 
then entered from an opposite door. 

"You'll get plenty of the same sort, by and by," said she, 

" What do you mean, you minx V- 

"You'll find out, one of these days," returned Cassy, in 
the same tone. "Now, Simon, I've one piece of advice to 
give you." 

"The devil, you have ! " 

"My advice is," said Cassy, steadily, as she began adjust- 
ing some things about the room, "that you let Tom alone." 

" What business is 't of yours ? " 

"What? To be sure, I don't know what it should be. 
If you want to pay twelve hundred for a fellow, and use him 
right up in the press of the season, just to serve your own 
spite, it's no business of mine. I 've done what I could for 

" You have ? What business have you meddling in my 

"None, to be sure. I've saved you some thousands of 
dollars, at diiferent times, by taking care of your hands, — 
that 's all the thanks I get. If your crop comes shorter into 
market than any of theirs, you won't lose your bet, I sup- 
pose? Tompkins won't lord it over you, I suppose, — and 
you '11 pay down your money like a lady, won't you ? I 
think I see you doing it ! " 

Legree, like many other planters, had but one form of 
ambition, — to have in the heaviest crop of the season, — and 
tie had several bets on this very present season pending in 


the next town. Cassy, therefore, with woman's tact, touched 
the only string that could be made to vibrate. 

"Well, I '11 let him off at what he's got," said Legrce; 
' but he shall beg my pardon, and promise better fashions." 

" That he won't do," said Cassy. 

" Won't,— eh?" 

"No, he won't," said Cassy. 

"I'd like to know why, Mistress," said Legree, in the 
extreme of scorn. 

"Because he 's done right, and he knows it, and won't say 
he ; s done wrons;." 

" Who a cuss cares what he knows 7 The nigger shall say 
what I please, or — " 

" Or, you'll lose your bet on the cotton crop, by keeping 
him out of the field, just at this very press." 

" But he will give up, — course, he will ; don't I know 
what niggers is ? He '11 beg like a dog, this morning." 

" He won't, Simon ; you don't know this kind. You may 
kill him by inches, — you won't get the first word of confes- 
sion out of.him." 

" We '11 see ; — where is he ? " said Legree, going out. 

" In the waste-room of the gin-house," said Cassy. 

Legree, though he talked so stoutly to Cassy, still sallied 
forth from the house with a degree of misgiving which was 
not common with him. His dreams of the past night, min- 
gled with Cassy' s prudential suggestions, considerably affected 
his mind. He resolved that nobody should be witness of his 
encounter with Tom ; and determined, if he could not subdue 
him by bulljnng, to defer his vengeance, to be wreaked in a 
more convenient season. 

The solemn light of dawn — the angelic glory of the morn- 
ing-star — had looked in through the rude window of the 


shed where Tom was lying ; and, as if descending on that 
star-beam, came the solemn words, " I am the root and 
offspring of David, and the bright and morning star." The 
mysterious warnings and intimations of Cassy, so far from 
discouraging his soul, in the end had roused it as with 
a heavenly call. He did not know but that the day of 
his death was dawning in the sky ; and his heart throbbed 
with solemn throes of joy and desire, as he thought that 
the wondrous all, of which he had often pondered, — the 
great white throne, with its ever radiant rainbow ; the white- 
robed multitude, with voices as many waters; the crowns, 
the palms, the harps, — might all break upon his vision before 
that sun should set again. And, therefore, without shudder- 
ing or trembling, he heard the voice of his persecutor, as he 
drew near. 

" Well, my boy," said Legree, with a contemptuous kick, 
" how do you find yourself? Did n't I tell yer I could lam 
yer a thing or two ? How do yer like it, — eh ? How did yer 
whaling agree' with yer, Tom ? An't quite so crank as yo 
was last night. Ye could n't treat a poor sinner, now, to a 
bit of a sermon, could ye, — eh ? " 

Tom answered nothing. • 

" Get up, you beast ! " said Legree, kicking him again. 

This was a difficult matter for one so bruised and faint , 
and, as Tom made efforts to do so, Legree laughed brutally. 

"What makes ye so spry, this morning, Tom? Cotched 
cold, may be, last night." 

Tom by this time had gained his feet, and was confronting 
his master with a steady, unmoved front. 

" The devil, you can ! " said Legree, looking him over. 
" 1 believe you have n't got enough yet Now, Tom, get 


right down on yer knees and beg my pardon, for yer shines 
last night." 

Tom did not move. 

" Down, you dog ! " said Legree, striking him with his 

" Mas'r Legree," said Tom, " I can't do it. I did only 
what I thought was right. I shall do just so again, if ever 
the time comes. I never will do a cruel thing, come what 

" Yes, but ye don't know what may come, Master Tom. Ye 
think what you 've got is something. I tell you 't an't any- 
thing, — nothing 't all. How would ye like to be tied to a tree, 
and have a slow fire lit up around ye — would n't that be 
pleasant, — eh, Tom 1 " 

"Mas'r," said Tom, " I know ye can do dreadful things ■ 
but," ■ — he stretched himself upward and clasped his hands, 
— " but, after ye 've killed the body, there an't no more ye 
can do. And 0, there 's all eternity to come, after that! " 

Eternity, — the word thrilled through the black man's 
soul with light and power, as he spoke ; it thrilled through 
the sinner's soul, too, like the bite of a scorpion. Legree 
gnashed on'him with his teeth, but rage kept him silent ; and 
Tom, like a man disenthralled, spoke, in a clear and cheerful 

" Mas'r Legree, as ye bought me, I '11 be a true and faith- 
ful servant to ye. I '11 give ye all the work of my hands, 
all my time, all my strength ; but my soul I won't give up 
to mortal man. I will hold on to the Lord, and put his 
commands before all, — die or live ; you may be sure on 't. 
Mas'r Legree, I an't a grain afeard to die. I 'd as soon die 
as not. Ye may whip me, starve me, burn me,— it '11 only 
send me sooner where I want to go." 

vol. ii. 20 


" I '11 make ye give out, though, 'fore I 've done ! " said 
Legree, in a rage. 

" I shall have help" said Tom ; " you '11 never do it." 

"Who the devil's going to help you?" said Legree, 

"The Lord Almighty," said Tom. 

"D — n you! " said Legree, as with one blow of his fist 
he felled Tom to the earth. 

A cold soft hand fell on Legree' s, at this moment. He 
turned, — it was Cassy's ; but the cold soft touch recalled his 
dream of the night before, and, flashing through the chambers 
of his brain, came all the fearful images of the night-watches, 
with a portion of the#iorror that accompanied them. 

" Will you be a fool ? " said Cassy, in French. " Let him 
go ! Let me alone to get him fit to be in the field again. 
Is n't it just as I told you ? " 

They say the alligator, the rhinoceros, though enclosed 
in bullet-proof mail, have each a spot where they are vul- 
nerable ; and fierce, reckless, unbelieving reprobates, have 
commonly this point in superstitious dread. 

Legree turned away, determined to let the point go for the 

"Well, have it your own way," he said, doggedly, to 

"Hark, ye!" he said to Tom; "I won't deal with ye 
now, because the business is pressing, and I want all my 
hands ; but I never forget. I '11 score it against ye, and 
sometime I '11 have my pay out o' yer old black hide, — mind 

Legree turned, and went out. 

" There you go," said Cassy, looking darkly aftei him ; 


"your reckoning's to come, yet! — My poor fellow, how 
are you? " 

" The Lord God hath sent his angel, and shut the lion's 
mouth, for this time," said Tom. 

"For this time, to be sure," said Cassy; "but now you've 
got his ill will upon you, to follow you day in, clay out, hang- 
ing like a dog on your throat, — sucking your blood, bleeding 
away your life, drop by drop. I know the man." 



"No matter with what solemnities he may have been devoted upon the 
altar of slavery, the moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the altar 
and the God sink together in the dust, and he stands redeemed, regener- 
ated, and disenthralled, by the irresistible genius of universal emancipa- 
tion." — Cur ran. 

A while we must leave Tom in the hands of his perse- 
cutors, while we turn to pursue the fortunes of George and 
his wifej whom we left in friendly hands, in a farm-house on 
the road-side. 

Tom Loker we left groaning and touzling in a most immac- 
ulately clean Quaker bed, under the motherly supervision of 
Aunt Dorcas, who found him to the full as tractable a patient 
as a sick bison. 

Imagine a tall, dignified, spiritual woman, whose clear mus- 
lin cap shades waves of silvery hair, parted on a broad, clear 
forehead, which overarches thoughtful gray eyes. A snowy 
handkerchief of lisse crape is folded neatly across her bosom ; 


her glossy brown silk dress rustles peacefully, as she glides up 
and down the chamber. 

"The devil ! " says Tom Loker, giving a great throw to 
the bed-clothes. 

" I must request thee, Thomas, not to use such language," 
says Aunt Dorcas, as she quietly rearranged the bed. 

"Well, I won't, granny, if I can help it," says Tom; "but 
it is enough to make a fellow swear, — so cursedly hot ! " 

Dorcas removed a comforter from the bed, straightened the 
clothes again, and tucked them in till Tom looked something 
like a chrysalis ; remarking, as she did so, 

" I wish, friend, thee would leave off cursing and swearing, 
and think upon thy ways." 

"What the devil," said Tom, "should I think of them for? 
Last thing ever / want to think of — hang it all ! " And Tom 
flounced over, untucking and disarranging everything, in a 
manner frightful to behold. 

" That fellow and gal are here, I 'spose," said he, sullenly, 
after a pause. 

"They are so," said Dorcas. 

" They 'd better be off up to the lake," said Tom ; "the 
quicker the better." 

" Probably they will do so," said Aunt Dorcas, knitting 

" And hark ye," said Tom ; " we've got correspondents in 
Sandusky, that watch the boats for us. I don't care if I tell, 
now. I hope they will get away, just to spite Marks, — the 
cursed puppy ! — d — n him ! " 

" Thomas ! " said Dorcas. 

"I tell you, granny, if you bottle a fellow up too tight, I 
shall split," said Tom. "But about the gal, — tell 'em tc 


dress her up some way, so 's to alter her. Her description 's 
out in Sandusky." 

"We will attend to that matter," said Dorcas, with char- 
acteristic composure. 

As we at this place take leave of Tom Loker, we may as 
well say, that, having lain three weeks at the Quaker dwel- 
ling, sick with a rheumatic fever, which set in, in company 
with his other afflictions, Tom arose from his bed a somewhat 
sadder and wiser man ; and, in place of slave-catching, betook 
himself to life in one of the new settlements, where his talents 
developed themselves more happily in trapping bears, wolves, 
and other inhabitants of the forest, in which he made himself 
quite a name in the land. Tom always spoke reverently of 
the Quakers. "Nice people," he would say; " wanted to 
convert me, but could n't come it, exactly. But, tell ye what, 
stranger, they do fix up a sick fellow first rate, — no mistake. 
Make jist the tallest kind o' broth and knicknacks." 

As Tom had informed them that their party would be 
looked for in Sandusky, it was thought prudent to divide 
them. Jim, with his old mother, was forwarded separately; 
and a night or two after, George and Eliza, with their child, 
were driven privately into Sandusky, and lodged beneath a 
hospitable roof, preparatory to taking their last passage on 
the lake. 

Their night was now far spent, and the morning star of 
liberty rose fair before them. Liberty ! — electric word ! 
What is it ? Is there anything more in it than a name — a 
rhetorical flourish ? Why, men and women of America, does 
your heart's blood thrill at that word, for which your fathers 
bled, and your braver mothers were willing that their noblest 
and best should die 1 

Is there anything in it glorious and dear for a nation, that 

vol. II. 20* 

234 uncle tom's cabin: ok, 

is not also glorious and clear for a man 1 What is freedom to 
a nation, but freedom to the individuals in it ? What is free- 
dom to that young man, who sits there, with his arms folded 
over his broad chest, the tint of African blood in his cheek, 
its dark fires in his eye, — what is freedom to George Harris? 
To your fathers, freedom was the right of a nation to be a 
nation. To him, it is the right of a man to be a man. and not 
a brute ; the right to call the wife of his bosom his wife, and 
to protect her from lawless violence ; the right to protect 
and educate his child ; the right to have a home of his own, a 
religion of his own, a character of his own, unsubject to the 
will of another. All these thoughts were rolling and seething 
in George's breast, as he was pensively leaning his head on 
his hand, watching his wife, as she was adapting to her slen- 
der and pretty form the articles of man's attire, in which it 
was deemed safest she should make her escape. 

" Now for it," said she, as she stood before the glass, and 
shook down her silky abundance of black curly hair. "I say, 
George, it 's almost a pity, is n't it," she said, as she held up 
some of it, playfully, — " pity it 's all got to come off?" 

George smiled sadly, and made no answer. 

Eliza turned to the glass, and the scissors glittered as one 
long lock after another was detached from her head. 

"There, now, that'll do," she said, taking up a hair-brush; 
" now for a few fancy touches." 

" There, an't I a pretty young fellow 1 " she said, turning 
around to her husband, laughing and blushing at the same 

"You always will be pretty, do what you will," said 

" What does make you so sober ?" said Eliza, kneeling on 
one knee, and laying her hand on his. tl We are only with- 


m. twenty-four hours of Canada, they say. Only a day and 
a night on the lake, and then — oh, then ! — " 

" 0, Eliza ! " said George, drawing her towards him ; 
" that is it ! Now my fate is all narrowing down to a point. 
To come so near, to be almost in sight, and then lose all. I 
should never live under it, Eliza." 

''Don't fear," said his wife, hopefully. "The good Lord 
would not have brought us so far, if he did n't mean to earry 
us through. I seem to feel him with us, George." 

" You are a blessed woman, Eliza ! " said George, clasping 
her with a convulsive grasp. " But, — oh, tell me ! can this 
great mercy be for us ? Will these years and years of misery 
come to an end 1 — shall we be free 7 " 

"I am sure of it, George," said Eliza, looking upward, 
while tears of hope and enthusiasm shone on her long, dark 
lashes. " I feel it in me, that God is going to bring us out 
of bondage, this very day." 

"I will believe you, Eliza," said George, rising suddenly 
up. " I will believe, — come, let's be off. Well, indeed," 
said he, holding her off at arm's length, and looking admir- 
ingly at her, "you are a pretty little fellow. That crop of 
little, short curls, is quite becoming. Put on your cap. So 
— a little to one side. I never saw you look quite so pretty. 
But, it 's almost time for the carriage ; — I wonder if Mrs. 
Smyth has got Harry rigged ] " 

The door opened, and a respectable, middle-aged woman 
entered, leading little Harry, dressed in girl's clothes. 

"What a pretty girl he makes," said Eliza, turning him 
round. "We call him Harriet, you see; — don't the name 
come nicely?" 

The child stood gravely regarding . his mother in her new 
and strange attire, observing a profound silence, and occa- 

236 uncle tom's cabin: or, 

sionally drawing deep sighs, and peeping at her from under 
his dark curls. 

" Does Harry know mamma ? " said Eliza, stretching her 
hands toward him. 

The child clung shyly to the woman. 

" Come, Eliza, why do you try to coax him, when you 
know that he has got to be kept away from you 1 " 

"J know it's foolish," said Eliza; "yet, I can't hear to 
have him turn away from me. But come, — where 's my 
cloak 1 Here, — how is it men put on cloaks, George ? " 

" You must wear it so," said her husband, throwing it over 
his shoulders. 

"So, then," said Eliza, imitating the motion, — "and I 
must stamp, and take long steps, t and try to look saucy." 

"Don't exert yourself," said George. " There is, now and 
then, a modest young man; and I think it would be easier for 
you to act that character." 

" And these gloves ! mercy upon us ! " said Eliza ; " why, 
my hands are lost in them." 

"I advise you to keep them on pretty strictly," said 
George. "Your little slender paw might bring us all out. 
Now, Mrs. Smyth, you are to go under our chaijge, and be 
our aunty, — you mind." 

"I've heard," said Mrs. Smyth, "that there have been 
men down, warning all the packet captains against a man and 
woman, with a little boy." 

" They have !" said George. " Well, if we see any such 
people, we can tell them." 

A hack now drove to the door, and the friendly family who 
had received the fugitives crowded around them with farewell 

The disguises the party had assumed were in accordance 


with the hints of Tom Loker. Mrs. Smyth, a respectable 
woman from the settlement in Canada, whither they were 
fleeing, being fortunately about crossing the lake to return 
thither, had consented to appear as the aunt of little Harry ; 
and, in order to attach him to her, he had been allowed to 
remain, the two last days, under her sole charge; and an extra 
amount of petting, joined to an indefinite amount of seed- 
cakes and candy, had cemented a very close attachment on 
the part of the young gentleman. 

The hack drove to the wharf. The two young men, as 
they appeared, walked up the plank into the boat, Eliza 
gallantly giving her arm to Mrs. Smyth, and George attend- 
ing to their baggage. 

George was standing at the captain's office, settling for hi3 
party, when he overheard two men talking by his side. 

" I 've watched every one that came on board," said one, 
11 and I know they 're not on this boat." 

The voice was that of the clerk of the boat. The speaker 
whom he addressed was our sometime friend Marks, who, 
with that valuable perseverance which characterized him, had 
come on to Sandusky, seeking whom he might devour. 

" You -would scarcely know the woman from a white one," 
said Marks. " The man is a very light mulatto ; he has a 
brand in one of his hands." 

The hand with which George was taking the tickets and 
change trembled a little ; but he turned coolly around, fixed 
an unconcerned glance on the face of the speaker, and walked 
leisurely toward another part of the boat, where Eliza stood 
waiting for him. 

Mrs. Smyth, with little Harry, sought the seclusion of the 
ladies' cabin, where the dark beauty of the supposed little 
girl drew many flattering comments from the passengers. 


George had the satisfaction, as the bell rang out its fare- 
well peal, to sep Marks walk down the plank to the shore , 
and drew a long sigh of relief, when the boat had put a 
returnless distance between them. 

It was a superb day. The. blue waves of Lake Erie danced, 
rippling and sparkling, in the sun-light. A fresh breeze blew 
from the shore, and tho lordly boat ploughed her way right 
gallantly onward. 

0, what an untold world there is in one human heart ! 
Who thought, as George walked calmly up and down the 
deck of the steamer, with his shy companion at his side, of 
all that was burning in his bosom ? The mighty good that 
seemed approaching seemed too good, too fair, even to be a 
reality ; and he felt a jealous dread, every moment of the day, 
that something would rise to snatch it from him. 

But the boat swept on. Hours fleeted, and, at last, clear 
and full rose the blessed English shores ; shores charmed by 
a mighty spell, — with one touch to dissolve every incantation 
of slavery, no matter in what language pronounced, or by 
what national power confirmed. 

George and his wife stood arm in arm, as the boat neared 
the small town of Amherstberg, in Canada. His breath grew 
thick and short ; a mist gathered before his eyes ; he silently 
pressed the little hand that lay trembling on his arm. The 
bell rang ; the boat stopped. Scarcely seeing what he did, he 
looked out his baggage, and gathered his little party. The 
little company were landed on the shore. They stood still 
till the boat had cleared ; and then, with tears and embracings, 
the husband and wife, with their wondering child in their 
arms, knelt down and lifted up their hearts to God ! 



" 'T was something like the burst from death to life* 
From the grave's cerements to the robes of heaven; 
From sin's dominion, and from passion's strife, 
To the pure freedom of a soul forgiven ; 
"Where all the bonds of death and hell are riven, 
And mortal puts on immortality, 
When Mercy's hand hath turned the golden key, 
And Mercy's voice hath said, Rejoice, thy soul is free." 

The little party were soon guided, by Mrs. Smyth, to the 
.h/spitable abode of a good missionary, whom Christian charity 
las placed here as a shepherd to the out-cast and wandering ; 
jyho are constantly finding an asylum on this shore. 

Who can speak the blessedness of that first day of freedom? 
Is ot the sense of liberty a higher and a finer one than any 
Df the five ? To move, speak and breathe, — go out and come 
in unwatched, and free from danger ! Who can speak the 
blessings of that rest which comes down on the free man's 
pillow, under laws which insure to him the rights that God 
has given to man 7 How fair and precious to that mother 
was that sleeping child's face, endeared by the memory of a 
thousand dangers ! How impossible was it to sleep, in the 
exuberant possession of such blessedness ! And yet, these 
two had not one acre of ground, — not a roof that they could 
call their own, — they had spent their all, to the last dollar. 
They had nothing more than the birds of the air, or the flow- 
ers of the field, — yet they could not sleep for joy. " 0, yo 
who take freedom from man, with what words shall ye answer 
it to God?" 

240 uncle tom's cabin: ok, 



<e Thanks be unto God, who giveth us the victory." 

Have not many of us, in the weary way of life, felt, in 
some hours, how far easier it were to die than to live ? 

The martyr, when faced even by a death of bodily anguish 
and horror, finds in the very terror of his doom a strong stim- 
ulant and tonic. There is a vivid excitement, a thrill and 
fervor, which may carry through any crisis of suffering that 
is the birth-hour of eternal glory and rest. 

But to live, — to wear on, day after day, of mean, bitter, 
low, harassing servitude, every nerve dampened and depressed, 
every power of feeling gradually smothered, — this long and 
wasting heart-martyrdom, this slow, daily bleeding away of 
the inward life, drop by drop, hour after hour, — this is the 
true searching test of what there may be in man or woman. 

When Tom stood face to face with his persecutor, and heard 
his threats, and thought in his very soul that his hour was 
come, his heart swelled bravely in him, and he thought he 
could bear torture and fire, bear anything, with the vision of 
Jesus and heaven but just a step beyond; but, when he was 
gone, and the present excitement passed off, came back the 
pain of his bruised and weary limbs, — came back the sense of 
his utterly degraded, hopeless, forlorn estate; and the day 
passed wearily enough. 

Long before his wounds were healed, Legrec insisted that 
he should be put to the regular field-work ; and then came 


day after day of pain and weariness, aggravated by every kind 
of injustice and indignity that the ill-will of a mean and ma- 
licious mind could devise. Whoever, in our circumstances, 
has made trial of pain, even with all the alleviations which, 
for us, usually attend it, must know the irritation that comes 
with it. Tom no longer wondered at the habitual surliness 
of his associates ; nay, he found the placid, sunny temper, 
which had been the habitude of his life, broken in on, and 
sorely strained, by the inroads of the same thing. He 
had flattered himself on leisure to read his Bible ; but there 
was no such thing as leisure there. In the height of the 
season, Legree did not hesitate to press all his hands through, 
Sundays and week-days alike. Why should n't he ? — he made 
more cotton by it, and gained his wager ; and if it wore out a 
few more hands, he could buy better ones. At first, Tom 
used to read a verse or two of his Bible, by the flicker of the 
fire, after he had returned from his daily toil ; but, after the 
cruel treatment he received, he used to come home so 
exhausted, that his head swam and his eyes failed when he 
tried to read; and he was fain to stretch himself down, with 
the others, in utter exhaustion. 

Is it strange that the religious peace and trust, which had 
upborne him hitherto, should give way to tossings of soul and 
despondent darkness 1 The gloomiest problem of this myste- 
rious life was constantly before his eyes, — souls crushed and 
ruined, evil triumphant, and God silent. It was weeks and 
months that Tom wrestled, in his own soul, in darkness and 
sorrow. He thought of Miss Ophelia's letter to his Kentucky 
friends, and would pray earnestly that God would send him 
deliverance. And then h§ would watch, day after day, in the 
vague hope of seeing somebody sent to redeem him ; and, 
when nobody came, he would crush back to his soul bitter 

VOL. II. 21 


thoughts, — that it was vain to serve God, that God had for- 
gotten him. He sometimes saw Cassy ; and sometimes, when 
summoned to the house, caught a glimpse of the dejected form 
of Emmeline, but held very little communion with either ; in 
fact, there was no time for him to commune with anybody. 

One evening, he was sitting, in utter dejection and prostra- 
tion, by a few decaying brands, where his coarse supper was 
baking. He put a few bits of brushwood on the fire, and 
strove to raise the light, and then drew his worn Bible from 
his pocket. There were all the marked passages, which had 
thrilled his soul so often, — words of patriarchs and seers, 
poets and sages, who from early time had spoken courage to 
man, — voices from the great cloud of witnesses who ever sur- 
round us in the race of life. Had the word lost its power, 
or could the failing eye and weary sense no longer answer to 
the touch of that mighty inspiration ? Heavily sighing, he 
put it in his pocket. A coarse laugh roused him ; he looked 
up, — Legree was standing opposite to him. 

"Well, old boy," he said, "you find your religion don't 
work, it seems ! I thought I should get that through your 
wool, at last!" 

The cruel taunt was more than hunger and cold and naked- 
ness. Tom was silent. 

" You were a fool," said Legree ; " for I meant to do well 
by you, when I bought you. You might have been better off 
than Sambo, or Quimbo either, and had easy times; and, 
instead of getting cut up and thrashed, every day or two, ye 
might have had liberty to lord it round, and cut up the other 
niggers ; and ye might have had, now and then, a good warm- 
ing of whiskey punch. Come, Tom, don't you think you 'd 
better be reasonable ? — heave that ar old pack of trash in the 
fire, and join my church ! " 


"The Lord forbid !" said Tom, fervently. 

"You see the Lord an't going to help you; if he had 
been, he wouldn't have let me get you ! This yer religion 
is all a mess of lying trumpery, Tom. I know all about it. 
Ye 'd better hold to me ; I 'm somebody, and can do some- 
thing ! " 

"No, Mas'r," said Tom; "I'll hold on. The Lord may 
help me, or not help ; but I '11 hold to him, and believe him 
to the last ! " 

" The more fool you !" said Legree, spitting scornfully at 
him, and spurning him with his foot. "Never mind; I'll 
chase you down, yet, and bring you under, — you'll see!" 
and Legree turned away. 

When a heavy weight presses the soul to the lowest level at 
which endurance is possible, there is an instant and desperate 
effort of every physical and moral nerve to throw off the 
weight ; and hence the heaviest anguish often precedes a 
return tide of joy and courage. So was it now with Tom. 
The atheistic taunts of his cruel master sunk his before 
dejected soul to the lowest ebb ; and, though the hand of faith 
still held to the eternal rock, it was with a numb, despairing 
grasp. Tom sat, like one stunned, at the fire. Suddenly 
everything around him seemed to fade, and a vision rose before 
him of one crowned with thorns, buffeted and bleeding. Tom 
gazed, in awe and wonder, at the majestic patience of the face ; 
the deep, pathetic eyes thrilled him to his inmost heart ; his 
soul woke, as, with floods of emotion, he stretched out his 
hands and fell upon his knees, — when, gradually, the vision 
changed : the sharp thorns became rays of glory ; and, in 
splendor inconceivable, he«saw that same face bending com- 
passionately towards him, and a voice said, " He that over- 

244 uncle tom's cabin : or, 

cometh shall sit down with me on my throne, even as I alsc 
overcame, and am set down with mj Father on his throne." 

How long Tom lay there, he knew not. When he came to 
himself, the fire was gone out, his clothes were wet with the 
chill and drenching dews ; but the dread soul-crisis w T as past, 
and, in the joy that filled him, he no longer felt hunger, cold, 
degradation, disappointment, wretchedness. From his deep- 
est goul, he that hour loosed and parted from every hope in 
the life that now is, and offered his own will an unquestioning 
sacrifice to the Infinite. Tom looked up to the silent, ever- 
living stars, — types of the angelic hosts who ever look down 
on man ; and the solitude of the night rung with the 
triumphant words of a hymn, which he had sung often in 
happier days, but never with such feeling as now : 

" The earth shall be dissolved like snow, 
The sun shall cease to shine ; 
But God, who called me here below, 
Shall be forever mine. 

■' And when this mortal life shall fail, 
And flesh and sense shall cease, 
I shall possess within the veil 
A life of joy and peace. 

" When we 've been there ten thousand years, 
Bright shining like the sun, 
We 've no less days to sing God's praise 
Than when we first begun." 

Those who have been familiar with the religious histories 
of the slave population know that relations like what we 
have narrated are very common among them. We have 
heard some from their own lips, of a very touching and 
affecting character. The psychologist tells us of a state, in 
which the affections and images of the mind become so 


dominant and overpowering, that they press into their service 
the outward senses, and make them give tangible shape to 
the inward imagining. Who shall measure what an all-per- 
vading Spirit may do with %ese capabilities of our mortality, 
or the ways in which He may encourage the desponding 
souls of the desolate? If the poor forgotten slave believes 
that Jesus hath appeared and spoken to him, who shall con- 
tradict him ? Did He not say that his mission, in all ages, 
was to bind up the broken-hearted, and set at liberty them 
that are bruised ? 

When the dim gray of dawn woke the slumberers to go 
forth to the field, there was among those tattered and 
shivering wretches one who walked with an exultant tread ; 
for firmer than the ground he trod on was his strong faith in 
Almighty, eternal love. Ah, Legree, try all your forces 
now i Utmost agony, woe, degradation, want, and loss of all 
things, shall only hasten on the process by which he shall be 
made a king and a priest unto God ! 

From this time, an inviolable sphere of peace encompassed 
the lowly heart of the oppressed one, — an ever-present 
Saviour hallowed it as a temple. Past now the bleeding of 
earthly regrets ; pu^ x its fluctuations of hope, and fear, and 
desire ; the human will, bent, and bleeding, and struggling 
long, was now entirely merged in the Divine. So short now 
seemed the remaining voyage of life, — so near, so vivid, 
seemed eternal blessedness, — that life's uttermost woes fell 
from him unharming. 

All noticed the change in his appearance. Cheerfulness 
find alertness seemed to return to him, and a quietness which 
no insult or injury could ruffle seemed to possess him. 

" What the devil 's got into Tom? " Legree said to Sambo. 

VOL. II. 21* 

246 uncle tom's cabin : or, 

" A while ago lie was all down in the mouth, and now he 's 
peart as a cricket." 

" Dunno, Mas'r ; gwine to run off, mebbe." 

"Like to see him try that," said Legree, with a savage 
grin, " would n't we, Sambo ? " 

"Guess we would! Haw! haw! ho!" said the sooty 
gnome, laughing obsequiously. " Lord, de fun! To see 
him stickin' in de mud, — chasin' and tarin' through de bushes, 
dogs a holdin' on to him ! Lord, I laughed fit to split, dat 
ar time we cotched Molly. I thought they 'd a had her all 
stripped up afore I could get 'em off. She car's de marks 
o' dat ar spree yet." 

" I reckon she will, to her grave," said Legree. " But 
now, Sambo, you look sharp. If the nigger 's got anything 
of this sort going, trip him up." 

" Mas'r, let me lone for dat," said Sambo. " I '11 tree de 
coon. Ho, ho, ho ! " 

This was spoken as Legree was getting on to his horse, to 
go to the neighboring town. That night, as he was return- 
ing, he thought he would turn his horse and ride round the 
quarters, and see if all was safe. 

It was a superb moonlight night, and the shadows of the 
graceful China trees lay minutely pencilled on the turf below, 
and there was that transparent stillness in the air which it 
seems almost unholy to disturb. Legree was at a little 
distance from the quarters, when he heard the voice of some 
one singing. It was not a usual sound there, and he paused 
to listen. A musical tenor voice sang, 

" When I can read my title clear 
To mansions in the skies, 
I '11 bid farewell to every fear, 
And wipe my weeping eyes. 


" Should earth against ray soul engage, 
And hellish darts be hurled, 
Then I can smile at Satan's rage, 
And face a frowning world. 

" Let cares like a wild deluge come, 
And storms of sorrow fall, 
May I but safely reach my home, 
My God, my Heaven, my All." 

" So ho ! " said Legree to himself, " he thinks so, does he ? 
How I hate these cursed Methodist hymns ! Here, you 
nigger," said he, coming suddenly out upon Tom, and raising 
his riding-whip, " how dare you be gettin' up this yer row, 
when you ought to be in bed ? Shut yer old black gash, and 
get along in with you ! " 

" Yes, Mas'r," said Tom, with ready cheerfulness, as he 
rose to go in. 

Legree was provoked beyond measure by Tom's evident 
happiness ; and, riding up to him, belabored him ovei his 
head and shoulders. 

" There, you dog," he said, " see if you '11 feel so comfort- 
able, after that ! " 

But the blows fell now only on the outer man, and not, as 
before, on the heart. Tom stood perfectly submissive; and 
yet Legree could not hide from himself that his power ovei 
his bond thrall was somehow gone. And, as Tom disap- 
peared in his cabin, and he wheeled his horse suddenly 
round, there passed through his mind one of those vivid 
flashes that often send the lightning of. conscience across the 
dark and wicked soul. He understood full well that it was 
God who was standing between him and his victim, and he 
blasphemed him. That submissive and silent man, whom 
taunts, nor threats, nor stripes, nor cruelties, could disturb, 

248 UNCLE tom's cabin: or, 

roused a voice within him, such as of old his Master roused in 
the demoniac soul, saying, " What have we to do with thee, 
thou Jesus of Nazareth ? — art thou come to torment us before 
the time ? " 

Tom's whole soul overflowed with compassion and sympathy 
for the poor wretches by whom he was surrounded. To him it 
seemed as if his life-sorrows were now over, and as if, out of 
that strange treasury of peace and joy, with which he had 
been endowed from above, he longed to pour out something 
for the relief of their woes. It is true, opportunities were 
scanty; but, on the way to the fields, and back again, and 
during the hours of labor, chances fell in his way of extending 
a helping-hand to the weary, the disheartened and discour- 
aged. The poor, worn-down, brutalized creatures, at first, 
could scarce comprehend this ; but, when it was continued 
week after week, and month after month, it began to awaken 
long-silent chords in their benumbed hearts. Gradually and 
imperceptibly the strange, silent, patient man, who was ready 
to bear every one's burden, and sought help from none, — who 
stood aside for all, and came last, and took least, yet was 
foremost to share his little all with any who needed, — the 
man who, in cold nights, would give up his tattered blanket 
to add to the comfort of some woman who shivered with sick- 
ness, and who filled the baskets of the weaker ones in the 
field, at the terrible risk of coming short in his own measure, 
— and who, though pursued with unrelenting cruelty by their 
common tyrant, never joined in uttering a word of reviling or 
cursing, — this man, at last, began to have a strange power 
over them ; and, when the more pressing season was past, and 
they were allowed again their Sundays for their own use, 
many would gather together to hear from him of Jesus. They 
would gladly have met to hear, and pray, and sing, in some 


place, together; bin Legree would not permit it, and more 
than once broke up such attempts, with oaths and brutal exe- 
crations, — so that the blessed news had to circulate from indi- 
vidual to individual. Yet who can speak the simple joy with 
which some of those poor outcasts, to whom life was a joyless 
journey to a dark unknown, heard of a compassionate Re- 
deemer and a heavenly home ? It is the statement of mis- 
sionaries, that, of all races of the earth, none have received 
the Gospel with such eager docility as the African. The 
principle of reliance and unquestioning faith, which is its 
foundation, is more a native element in this race than any 
other ; and it has often been found among them, that a stray 
seed of truth, borne on some breeze of accident into hearts the 
most ignorant, has sprung up into fruit, whose abundance has 
shamed that of higher and more skilful culture. 

The poor mulatto woman, whose simple faith had been 
well-nigh crushed and overwhelmed, by the avalanche of 
cruelty and wrong which had fallen upon her, felt her soul 
raised up by the hymns and passages of Holy Writ, which 
y „his lowly missionary breathed into her ear in intervals, as 
they were going to and returning from work ; and even the 
half-crazed and wandering mind of Cassy was soothed and 
calmed by his simple and unobtrusive influences. 

Stung to madness and despair by the crushing agonies of a 
life, Cassy had often resolved in her soul an hour of retribu - 
tion, when her hand should avenge on her oppressor all the 
injustice and cruelty to which she had been witness, or which 
she had in her own person suffered. 

One night, after all in Tom's cabin were sunk in sleep, he 
was suddenly aroused by seeing her face at the hole between 
the logs, that served for a window. She made a silent gesture 
for him to come out. 

250 uncle tom's cabin: or, 

Tom came out the door. It was between one and two 
o'clock at night, — broad, calm, still moonlight. Tom re- 
marked, as the light of the moon fell upon Cassy's large, 
black eyes, that there was a wild and peculiar glare in them, 
unlike their wonted fixed despair. 

" Come here, Father Tom," she said, laying her small 
hand on his wrist, and drawing him forward with a force as if 
the hand were of steel ; " come here, — I 've news for you." 

"What, Misse Cassy?" said Tom, anxiously. 

" Tom, would n't you like your liberty ?" 

" I shall have it, Misse, in God's time," said Tom. 

"Ay, but you may have it to-night," said Cassy, with a 
flash of sudden energy. " Come on." 

Tom hesitated. 

" Come ! " said she, in a whisper, fixing her black eyes on 
him. " Come along ! He 's asleep — sound. I put enough 
into his brandy to keep him so. I wish I 'd had more, — I 
should n't have wanted you. But come, the back door is 
unlocked; there's an axe there, I put it there, — his room 
door is open ; I '11 show you the way. I'da done it myself, 
only my arms are so weak. Come along ! " 

" Not for ten thousand worlds, Misse ! " said Tom, firmly, 
stopping and holding her back, as she was pressing forward. 

"But think of all these poor creatures," said Cassy. "We 
might set them all free, and go somewhere in the swamps, and 
find an island, and live by ourselves ; I 've heard of its being 
done. Any life is better than this." 

"No!" said Tom, firmly. " No ! good never comes of 
wickedness. I 'd sooner chop my right hand off! " 

" Then /shall do it," said Cassy, turning. 

"0, Misse Cassy!" said Tom, throwing himself before 
her, "for the dear Lord's sake that died for ye, don't sell 


your precious soul to the devil, that way ! Nothing but evil 
will come of it. The Lord has n't called us to wrath. We 
must suffer, and wait his time." 

" Wait ! " said Cassy. " Have n't I waited ? — waited till 
my head is dizzy and my heart sick ? What has he made me 
suffer ? What has he made hundreds of poor creatures suf- 
fer ? Is n't he wringing the life-blood out of you ? I 'm 
called on ; they call me ! His time 's come, and I '11 have 
his heart's blood !" 

"No, no, no !" said Tom, holding her small hands, which 
were clenched with spasmodic violence. "No, ye poor, lost 
soul, that ye must n't do. The dear, blessed Lord never shed 
no blood but his own, and that he poured out for us when we 
was enemies. Lord, help us to follow his steps, and love our 

"Love ! " said Cassy, with a fierce glare ; "love such ene- 
mies ! It is n't in flesh and blood." 

"No, Misse, it isn't," said Tom, looking up; "butiJe 
gives it to us, and that 's the victory. When we can love 
and pray over all and through all, the battle 's past, and the 
victory 's come, — glory be to Go- . ! " And, with streaming 
eyes and choking voice, the black man looked up to heaven. 

And this, oh Africa ! latest oalled of nations, — called to 
the crown of thorns, the scourr e, the bloody sweat, the cross 
of agony, — this is to be thy v otory; by this shalt thou reign 
with Christ when his kingdor _ shall come on earth. 

The deep fervor of Tom's feelings, the softness of his voice, 
his tears, fell like dew on the wild, unsettled spirit of the poor 
woman. A softness gathered over the lurid fires of her eye ; 
she looked down, and Tom could feel the relaxing muscles of 
her hands, as she said, 

" Bid n't I tell you that evil spirits followed me '? ' 

252 uncle tom's cabin: or. 

Father Tom, I can't pray, — I wish I could. I never have 
prayed since my children were sold ! What you say must 
be right, I know it must ; but when I try to pray, I can only 
hate and curse. I can't pray ! " 

" Poor soul ! " said Tom, compassionately. " Satan desires 
to have ye, and sift ye as wheat. I pray the Lord for ye. ! 
Misse Cassy, turn to the dear Lord Jesus. He came to bind 
up the broken-hearted, and comfort all that mourn." 

Cassy stood silent, while large, heavy tears dropped from 
her downcast eyes. 

"Misse Cassy," said Tom, in a hesitating tone, after sur 
veying her a moment in silence, "if ye only could get away 
from here, — if the thing was possible, — I 'd 'vise ye and 
Emmeline to do it ; that is, if ye could go without blood- 
guiltiness, — not otherwise." 

"Would you try it with us, Father Tom?" 

"No," said Tom; "time was when I would; but the 
Lord's given me a work among these yer poor souls, and I '11 
stay with 'em and bear my cross with 'em till the end. It 's 
different with you ; it 's a snare to you, — it 's more 'n you 
can stand, — and you 'd bo ter go, if you can." 

"I know no way but tnrough the grave," said Cassy. 
"There 's no beast or bird rut can find a home somewhere ; 
even the snakes and the all gators have their places to lie 
down and be quiet ; but there 1 s no place for us. Down in 
the darkest swamps, their dogs will hunt us out, and find us. 
Everybody and everything is against us ; even the very beasts 
side against us, — and where shall we go?" 

Tom stood silent ; at length he said, 

" Him that saved Daniel in the den of lions, — that saved 
the children in the fiery furnace, — Him that walked on the 
gea, and bade the winds be still, — He 's alive yet ; and I 've 


faith to believe he can deliver you. Try it, and I '11 pray, 
with all my might, for you." 

By what strange law of mind is it that an idea long over- 
looked, and trodden under foot as a useless stone, suddenly 
sparkles out in new light, as a discovered diamond ? 

Cassy had often revolved, for hours, all possible or probable 
schemes of escape, and dismissed them all, as hopeless and 
impracticable ; but at this moment there flashed through her 
mind a plan, so simple and feasible in all its details, as to 
awaken an instant hope. 

" Father Tom, I'll try it ! " she said, suddenly 

" Amen ! " said Tom ; "the Lord help ye ! " 



" The way of the wicked is as darkness ; he knoweth not at what he 


The garret of the house that Legree occupied, like most 
other garrets, was a great, desolate space, dusty, hung with 
cobwebs, and littered with cast-off lumber. The opulent 
family that had inhabited the house in the days of its splen- 
dor had imported a great deal of splendid furniture, some of 
which they had taken away with them, while some remained 
standing desolate in mouldering, unoccupied rooms, or stored 
away in this place. One or two immense packing-boxes, in 
which this furniture was brought, stood against the sides of 
the garret. There was a small window there, which let in, 

vol. ii. 22 


through its clingy, dusty panes, a scanty, uncertain light on 
the tall, high-backed chairs and dusty tables, that had once 
seen better days. Altogether, it was a weird and ghostly 
place ; but, ghostly as it was, it wanted not in legends among 
the superstitious negroes, to increase its terrors. Some few 
years before, a negro woman, who had incurred Legree's dis- 
pleasure, was confined there for several weeks. What passed 
there, we do not say ; the negroes used to whisper darkly to 
each other ; but it was known that the body of the unfortu- 
nate creature was one day taken down from there, and 
buried ; and, after that, it was said that oaths and cursings 
and the sound of violent blows, used to ring through that old 
garret, and mingled with wailings and groans of despair. 
Once, when Legree chanced to overhear something of this 
kind, he flew into a violent passion, and swore that the next 
one that told stories about that garret should have an oppor- 
tunity of knowing what was there, for he would chain them 
up there for a week. This hint was enough to repress talk- 
ing, though, of course, it did not disturb the credit of the 
story in the least. 

Gradually, the staircase that led to the garret, and even 
the passage-way to the staircase, were avoided by every one 
in the house, from every one fearing to speak of it, and the 
legend was gradually falling into desuetude. It had suddenly 
occurred to Cassy to make use of the superstitious excitabil- 
ity, which was so great in Legree, for the purpose of her 
liberation, and that of her fellow-sufferer. 

The sleeping-room of Cassy was directly under the garret. 
One day, without consulting Legree, she suddenly took it 
upon her, with some considerable ostentation, to change all 
the furniture and appurtenances of the room to one at some 
considerable distance. The under-servante, who were called 


on to effect this movement, were running and bustling about 

with great zeal and confusion, when Legree returned from a 


" Hallo ! you Cass ! " said Legree, " what 's in the wind 


" Nothing; only I choose to have another room," said 

Cussy, doggedly. 

" And what for, pray ?" said Legree. 

'•'I choose to," said Cassy. 

" The devil you do ! and what for ? " 

" I 'd like to get some sleep, now and then." 

" Sleep ! well, what hinders your sleeping ?" 

" I could tell, I suppose, if you want to hear," said Cassy, 

" Speak out, you minx ! " said Legree. 

" ! nothing. I suppose it would n't disturb you ! Only 
groans, and people scuffling., and rolling round on the garret 
floor, half the night, from twelve to morning ! " 

" People up garret ! " said Legree, uneasily, but forcing a 
laugh ; " who are they, Cassy ?" 

Cassy raised her sharp, black eyes, and looked in the face 
of Legree, with an expression that went through his bones, as 
she said, "To be sure, Simon, who are they? I 'd like to 
have you tell me. You don't know, I suppose ! " 

With an oath, Legree struck at her with his riding-whip ; 
but she glided to one side, and passed through the door, and 
cooling back, said, "If you'll sleep in that room, you'll 
know all about it. Perhaps you'd better try it!" and then 
immediately she shut and locked the door. 

Legree blustered and swore, and threatened to break down 
the door ; but apparently thought better of it, and walked 
uneasily into the sitting-room. Cassy perceived that her 


shaft had struck home ; and, from that hour, with the most 
exquisite address, she never ceased to continue the train of 
influences she had begun. 

In a knot-hole in the garret she had inserted the neck of 
an old bottle, in such a manner that when there was the least 
wind, most doleful and lugubrious wailing sounds proceeded 
from it, which, in a high wind, increased to a perfect shriek, 
such as to credulous and superstitious ears might easily seem 
to be that of horror and despair. 

These sounds were, from time to time, heard by the ser- 
vants, and revived in full force the memory of the old ghost 
legend. A superstitious creeping horror seemed to fill the 
house ; and though no one dared to breathe it to Legree, he 
found himself encompassed by it, as by an atmosphere. 

No one is so thoroughly superstitious as the godless man. 
The Christian is composed by the -belief of a wise, all-ruling 
Father, whose presence fills the void unknown with light and 
order ; but to the man who has dethroned God, the spirit-land 
is, indeed, in the words of the Hebrew poet, "a land of dark- 
ness and the shadow of death," without any order, where the 
light is as darkness. Life and death to him are haunted 
grounds, filled with goblin forms of vague and shadowy 

Legree had had the slumbering moral element in him 
roused by his encounters with Tom, — roused, only to be 
resisted by the determinate force of evil ; but still there was 
a thrill and commotion of the dark, inner world, produced by 
every word, or prayer, or hymn, that reacted in superstitious 

The influence of Cassy over him was of a strange and sin- 
gular kind. He was her owner, her tyrant and tormentor 


She was, as he knew, wholly, and without any possibility of 
help or redress, in his hands ; and yet so it is, that the most 
brutal man cannot live in constant association with a strong 
female influence, and not be greatly controlled by it. When 
he first bought her, she was, as she had said, a woman deli- 
cately bred ; and then he crushed her, without scruple, beneath 
the foot of his brutality. But, as time, and debasing influences, 
and despair, hardened womanhood within her, and waked the 
fires of fiercer passions, she had become in a measure his mis- 
tress, and he alternately tyrannized over and dreaded her. 

This influence had become more harassing and decided, 
since partial insanity had given a strange, weird, unsettled 
cast to all her words and language. 

A night or two after this, Legree was sitting in the old 
sitting-room, by the side of a flickering wood fire, that threw 
uncertain glances round the room. It was a stormy, windy 
night, such as raises whole squadrons of nondescript noises in 
rickety old houses. Windows were rattling, shutters flapping, 
the wind carousing, rumbling, and tumbling down the chim- 
ney, and, every once in a while, puffing out smoke and ashes, 
as if a legion of spirits were coming after them. Legree had 
been casting up accounts and reading newspapers for some 
hours, while Cassy sat in the corner, sullenly looking into the 
fire. Legree laid down his paper, and seeing an old book 
lying on the table, which he had noticed Cassy reading, the 
first part of the evening, took it up, and began to turn it over. 
It was one of those collections of stories of bloody murders, 
ghostly legends, and supernatural visitations, which, coarsely 
got up and illustrated, have a strange fascination for one who 
once begins to read them. 

Legree poohed and pished, but read, turning page after 

vol. ii. 22* 


page, till, finally, after reading some way, he threw down the 
book, with an oath. 

"You don't believe in ghosts, do you, Cass?" said he, 
taking the tongs and settling the fire. " I thought you'd 
more sense than to let noises scare youP 

lt No matter what I believe," said Cassy, sullenly. 

" Fellows used to try to frighten me with their yarns at 
sea," said Legree. " Never come it round me that way. 
I'm too tough for any such trash, tell ye." 

Cassy sat looking intensely at him in the shadow of the 
corner. There was that strange light in her eyes that always 
impressed Legree with uneasiness. 

" Them noises was nothing but rats and the wind," said 
Legree. " Eats will make a devil of a noise. I used to 
hear 'em sometimes down in the hold of the ship ; and wind, 
— Lord's sake ! ye can make anything out o' wind." 

Cassy knew Legree was uneasy under her eyes, and, there- 
fore, she made no answer, but sat fixing them on him, with 
that strange, unearthly expression, as before. 

"Come, speak out, woman, — don't you think so?" said 
Legree. . 

" Can rats walk down stairs, and come walking through 
the entry, and open a door when you 've locked it and set a 
chair against it ? " said Cassy; " and come walk, walk, walk- 
ing right up to your bed, and put out their hand, so ? " 

Cassy kept her glittering eyes fixed on Legree, as she 
spoke, and he stared at her like a man in the nightmare, till, 
when she finished by laying her hand, icy cold, on his, he 
sprung back, with an oath. 

" Woman ! what do you mean ? Nobody did? " — 

" 0, no, — of course not, — did I say they did ? " said 
Cassy, with a smile of chilling derision. 


" But — did — have you really seen ? — Come, Cass, what 
is it, now, — speak out ! " 

" You may sleep there, yourself," said Cassy, " if you 
want to know." 

" Did it come from the garret, Cassy ? " 

" It,— what? " said Cassy. 

11 Why, what you told of — " 

"I didn't tell you anything," said Cassy, with dogged 

Legree walked up and down the room, uneasily. 

" I '11 have this yer thing examined. I '11 look into it, this 
very night. I '11 take my pistols — " 

" Do," said Cassy ; " sleep in that room. I'd like to see 
you doing it. Fire your pistols, — do ! " 

Legree stamped his foot, and swore violently. 

" Don't swear," said Cassy; " nobody knows who may be 
hearing you. Hark ! What was that 1 " 

"What?" said Legree, starting. 

A heavy old Dutch clock, that stood in the corner of the 
room, began, and slowly struck twelve. 

For some reason or other, Legree neither spoke nor moved ; 
a vague horror fell on him ; while Cassy, with a keen, sneer- 
ing glitter in her eyes, stood looking at him, counting the 

" Twelve o'clock ; well, now we '11 see," said she, turning, 
and opening the door into the passage-way, and standing as 
if listening. 

" Hark ! What 's that?" said she, raising her finger. 

"It's only the wind," said Legree. "Don't you hear 
how cursedly it blows ?" 

" Simon, come here," said Cassy, in a whisper, laying her 


hand on his. and leading him to the foot of the stairs: "do 
you know what that is 1 Hark ! " 

A wild shriek came pealing down the stairway. It came 
from the garret. Legree's knees knocked together; his face 
grew white with fear. 

" Had n't you better get your pistols ?" said Cassy, with a 
sneer that froze Legree's blood. " It 's time this thing was 
looked into, you know. I 'd like to have you go up now ; 
they're at it." 

" I won't go ! " said Legree, with an oath. 

"Why not? There an't any such thing as ghosts, you 
know ! Come ! " and Cassy flitted up the winding stairway, 
laughing, and looking back after him. " Come on." 

" I believe you are the devil ! " said Legree. "Come back, 
you hag, — come back, Cass ! You shan't go ! " 

But Cassy laughed wildly, and - fled on. He heard her 
open the entry doors that led to the garret. A wild gust of 
wind swept dow T n, extinguishing the candle he held in his 
hand, and with it the fearful, unearthly screams ; they seemed 
to be shrieked in his very ear. 

Legree fled frantically into the parlor, whither, in a few 
moments, he was followed by Cassy, pale, calm, cold as an 
avenging spirit, and with that same fearful light in her eye. 

" I hope you are satisfied," said she. 

" Blast you, Cass ! " said Legree. 

" What for ?" said Cassy. " I only went up and shut the 
doors. What 's the matter with that garret, Simon, do 
you suppose?" said she. 

" None of your business ! " said Legree. 

"0, it an't? Well/' said Cassy, " at any rate, 1 'm glad 
/"don't sleep under it." 

Anticipating the rising of the wind, that very evening, 


Cassy had been up and opened the garret window. Of course, 
the moment the doors were opened, the wind had drafted 
down, and extinguished the light. 

This may serve as a specimen of the game that Cassy 
played with Legree, until he would sooner have put his head 
into a lion's mouth than to have explored that garret. Mean- 
while; in the night, when everybody else was asleep, Cassy 
slowly and carefully accumulated there a stock of provisions 
sufficient to afford subsistence for some time ; she transferred, 
article by article, a greater part of her own and Emmeline's 
wardrobe. All things being arranged, they only waited a 
fitting opportunity to put their plan in execution. 

By cajoling Legree, and taking advantage of a good- 
natured interval, Cassy had got him to take her with him to 
the neighboring town, which was situated directly on the Red 
river. With a memory sharpened to almost preternatural 
clearness, she remarked every turn in the road, and formed 
a mental estimate of the time to be occupied in traversing it. 

At the time when all was matured for action, our readers 
may, perhaps, like to look behind the scenes, and see the final 
coup oVitat. 

It was now near evening. Legree had been absent, on a 
ride to a neighboring farm. For many days Cassy had been 
unusually gracious and accommodating in her humors ; and 
Legree and she had been, apparently, on the best of terms.- 
At present, we may behold her and Emmeline in the room of 
the latter, busy in sorting and arranging two small bundles. 

" There, these will be large enough," said Cassy. " Now 
put on your bonnet, and let 's start : it 's just about the right 

"Why, they can see us yet," said Emmeline. 

"I mean they shall," said Cassy, coolly. "Don't you 

262 uncle tom's cabin : or, 

know that they must have their chase after us, at any rate ? 
The way of the thing is to be just this : — We will steal out 
of the back door, and run down by the quarters. Sambo or 
Quimbo will be sure to see us. They will give chase, and we 
will get into the swamp ; then, they can't follow us any fur- 
ther till they go up and give the alarm, and turn out the 
dogs, and so on; and, while they are blundering round, and 
tumbling over each other, as they always do, you and I will 
just slip along to the creek, that runs back of the house, and 
wade along in it, till we get opposite the back door. That 
will put the dogs all at fault ; for scent won't lie in the water. 
Every one will run out of tne house to look after us, and 
then we '11 whip in at the back door, and up into the garret, 
where I 've got a nice bed made up in one of the great boxes. 
We must stay in that garret a good while ; for, I tell you, he 
will raise heaven and earth after us. He '11 muster some of 
those old overseers on the other plantations, and have a great 
hunt ; and they '11 go over every inch of ground in that 
swamp. He makes it his boast that nobody ever got away 
from him. So let him hunt at his leisure." 

" Cassy, how well you have planned it ! " said Emmeline. 
" Who ever would have thought of it, but you ? " 

There was neither pleasure nor exultation in Cassy' s eyes, 
— only a despairing firmness. 

" Come," she said, reaching her hand to Emmeline. 

The two fugitives glided noiselessly from the house, and 
flitted, through the gathering shadows of evening, along by 
the quarters. The crescent moon, set like a silver signet 
in the western sky, delayed a little the approach of night. As 
Cassy expected, when quite near the verge of the swamps that 
encircled the plantation, they heard a voice calling to them to 
stop. It was not Sambo, however, but Legree, who was pur- 


suing them with violent execrations. At the sound, the feebler 
spirit of Emmeline gave way; and, laying hold of* Cassy's 
arm, she said, " 0, Cassy, I 'm going to faint ! " 

" If you do, I '11 kill you ! " said Cassy, drawing a small, 
glittering stiletto, and flashing it before the eyes of the girl. 

The diversion accomplished the purpose. Emmeline did 
not faint, and succeeded in plunging, with Cassy, into a part 
of the labyrinth of swamp, so deep and dark that it was per- 
fectly hopeless for Legree to think of following them, without 

u Well," said he, chuckling brutally ; Ci at any rate, they 've 
got themselves into a trap now — the baggages ! They 're 
safe enough. They shall sweat for it ! " 

" Hulloa, there ! Sambo! Quimbo! All hands !" called 
Legree, coming to the quarters, when the men and women 
were just returning from work. "There's two runaways in 
the swamps. I '11 give five dollars to any nigger as catches 
'em. Turn out the dogs ! Turn out Tiger, and Fury, and 
the rest !" 

The sensation produced by this news was immediate. Many 
of the men sprang forward, officiously, to offer their services, 
either from the hope of the reward, or from that cringing sub- 
serviency which is one of the most baleful effects of slavery. 
Some ran one way, and some another. Some were for getting 
flambeaux of pine-knots. Some were uncoupling the dogs, 
whose hoarse, savage bay added not a little to the animation 
of the scene. 

" Mas'r, shall we shoot 'em, if we can't cotch 'em?" said 
Sambo, to whom his master brought out a rifle. 

" You may fire on Cass, if you like ; it 's time she was 
gone to the devil, where she belongs; but the gal, not." said 
Legree. " And now, boys, be spry and smart. Five dollars 


for him that gets 'em ; and a glass of spirits to every one of 
you, anyhow." 

The whole band, with the glare of blazing torches, and 
whoop, and shout, and savage yell, of man and beast, pro- 
ceeded down to the swamp, followed, at some distance, by 
every servant in the house. The establishment was, of a 
consequence, wholly deserted, when Cassy and Emmeline 
glided into it the back way. The whooping and shouts of 
their pursuers were still filling the air ; and, looking from tho 
sitting-room windows, Cassy and Emmeline could see the 
troop, with their flambeaux, just dispersing themselves along 
the edge of the swamp. 

"See there!" said Emmeline, pointing to Cassy; "the 
hunt is begun ! Look how those lights dance about! Hark! 
the dogs ! Don't you hear ? If we were only there, our 
chance would n't be worth a picayune. 0, for pity's sake, 
do let 's hide ourselves. Quick ! " 

"There's no occasion for hurry," said Cassy, coolly; "they 
are all out after the hunt, — that \| the amusement of the 
evening ! We '11 go up stairs, by and by. Meanwhile," said 
she, deliberately taking a key from the pocket of a coat that 
Legree had thrown down in his hurry, "meanwhile I shall 
take something to pay our passage." 

She unlocked the desk, took from it a roll of bills, which 
she counted over rapidly. 

"0, don't let 's do that ! " said Emmeline. 

"Don't!" said Cassy; "why not? Would you have us 
starve in the swamps, or have that that will pay our way to 
the free states ? Money w^ll do anything, girl." And, as 
she spoke, she put the money in her bosom. 

"It would be stealing," said Emmeline, in a distressed 


" Stealing ! " said Cassy, with a scornful laugh. "They 
who steal body and soul need n't talk to us. Every one of 
these bills is stolen, — stolen from poor, starving, sweating 
creatures, who must go to the devil at last, for his profit. Let 
him talk about stealing ! But come, we may as well go up 
garret ; I 've got a stock of candles there, and some books to 
pass away the time. You may be pretty sure they won't 
come there to inquire after us. If they do, I '11 play ghost 
for them." 

When Emmeline reached the garret, she found an immense 
box, in which some heavy pieces of furniture had once been 
brought, turned on its side, so that the opening faced the 
wall, or rather the eaves. Cassy lit a small lamp, and, creep- 
ing round under the eaves, they established themselves in it. 
It was spread with a couple of small mattresses and some 
pillows ; a box near by was plentifully stored with candles, 
provisions, and all the clothing necessary to their journey, 
which Cassy had arranged into bundles of an astonishingly 
small compass. 

"There," said Cassy, as she fixed the lamp into a small 
hook, which she had driven into the side of "he box for that 
purpose ; " this is to be our home for the present. How do 
you like it?" 

" Are you sure they won't come and search tfce garret ?" 

"I'd like to see Simon Legree doing that,' ; said Cassy, 
"No, indeed; he will be too glad to keep away. As to the 
servants, they would any of them stand and be shot, sooner 
than show their faces here." 

Somewhat reassured, Emmeline settled herself back on her 

" What did you mean, Cassy, by saying you would kill 
me?" she said, simply. 

vol. ii. 23 


" I meant to stop your fainting," said Cassy, "and I did 
do itl And now I tell you, Emmeline, you must make up 
your mind not to faint, let what will come ; there 's no sort 
of need of it. If I had not stopped you, that wretch might 
have had his hands on you now." 

Emmeline shuddered. 

The two remained some time in silence. Cassy busied 
herself with a French book ; Emmeline, overcome with the 
exhaustion, fell into a doze, and slept some time. She was 
awakened by loud shouts and outcries, the tramp of horses' 
feet, and the baying of dogs. She started up, with a faint 

"Only the hunt coming back," said Cassy, coolly; "never 
fear. Look out of this knot-hole. Don't you see 'em all 
down there ? Simon has to give it up, for this night. Look, 
how muddy his horse is, flouncing about in the swamp ; the 
dogs, too, look rather crest-fallen. Ah, my good sir, you '11 
have to try the race again and again, — the game isn't there." 

" 0, don't speak a word ! " said Emmeline ; " what if they 
should hear you ?'< 

"If they do ^ear anything, it will make them very partic- 
ular to keep away," said Cassy. "No danger; we may 
make any noiie we please, and it will only add to the effect." 

At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the 
house. Lcgree, cursing his ill luck, and vowing dire ven- 
geance on the morrow, went to bed. 




" Deem not the just by Heaven forgot ! 

Though life its common gifts deny, — 
Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart, 

And spurned of man, he goes to die ! 
For God hath marked each sorrowing day, 

And numbered every bitter tear ; 
And heaven's long years of bliss shall pay 

For all his children suffer here." Bryant. 

The longest way must have its close, — the gloomiest night 
will wear on to a morning. An eternal, inexorable lapse of 
moments is ever hurrying the day of the evil to an eternal 
night, and the night of the just to an eternal day. We have 
walked with our humble friend thus far in the valley of slav- 
ery ; first through flowery fields of ease and indulgence, then 
through heart-breaking separations from all that man holds 
dear. Again, we have waited with him in a sunny island, 
where generous hands concealed his chains with flowers ; and, 
lastly, we have followed him when the last ray of earthly 
hope went out in night, and seen how, in the blackness of 
earthly darkness, the firmament of the unseen has blazed with 
stars of new and significant lustre. 

The morning-star now stands over the tops of the moun- 
tains, and gales and breezes, not of earth, show that the gates 
of day are unclosing. 

The escape of Cassy and Emmeline irritated the before 


surly temper of Legree to the last degree ; and his fury, as 
was to be expected, fell upon the defenceless head of Tom. 
When he hurriedly announced the tidings among his hands, 
there was a sudden light in Tom's eye, a sudden upraising 
of his hands, that did not escape him. He saw that he did 
not join the muster of the pursuers. He thought of forcing 
him to do it ; but, having had, of old, experience of his inflex- 
ibility when commanded to take part in any deed of inhuman- 
ity, he would not, in his hurry, stop to enter into any conflict 
with him. 

Tom, therefore, remained behind, with a few who had 
learned of him to pray, and offered up prayers for the escape 
of the fugitives. 

When Legree returned, baffled and disappointed, all the 
long-working hatred of his soul towards his slave began to 
gather in a deadly and desperate form. Had not this man 
braved him, — steadily, powerfully, resistlessly, — ever since 
he bought him ? Was there not a spirit in him which, silent 
as it was, burned on him like the fires of perdition ? 

" I hate him ! " said Legree, that night, as he sat up in his 
bed ; " I hate him ! And is n't he mine ? Can't I do what 
I like with him? Who's to hinder, I wonder?" And 
Legree clenched his fist, and shook it, as if he had something 
in his hands that he could rend in pieces. 

But, then, Tom was a faithful, valuable servant; and, 
although Legree hated him the more for that, yet the consid- 
eration was still somewhat of a restraint to him. 

The next morning, he determined to say nothing, as yet ; to 
assemble a party, from some neighboring plantations, with dogs 
and guns ; to surround the swamp, and go about the hunt sys- 
tematically. If it succeeded, well and good ; if not, he would 
summon Tom befcre him, and — his teeth clenched and his 


blood boiled — then he would break that fellow down, or 

there was a dire inward whisper, to which his soul assented- 

Ye say that the interest of the master is a sufficient safe- 
guard for the slave. In the fury of man's mad will, he will 
wittingly, and with open eye, sell his own soul to the devil to 
gain his ends ; and will he be more careful of his neighbor's 

" Well," said Cassy, the next day, from the garret, as she 
reconnoitred through the knot-hole, " the hunt's going to 
begin again, to-day ! " 

Three or four mounted horsemen were curvetting about, on 
the space front of the house ; and one or two leashes of strange 
dogs were struggling with the negroes who held them, baying 
and barking at each other. 

The men are, two of them, overseers of plantations in the 
vicinity ; and others were some of Legree's associates at the 
tavern-bar of a neighboring city, who had come for the inter- 
est of the sport. A more hard-favored set, perhaps, could 
not be imagined. Legree was serving brandy, profusely, 
round among them, as also among the negroes, who had been 
detailed from the various plantations for this service ; for it 
was an object to make every service of this kind, among the 
negroes, as much of a holiday as possible. 

Cassy placed her ear at the knot-hole ; and, as the morning 
air blew directly towards the house, she could overhear a 
good deal of the conversation. A grave sneer overcast the 
dark, severe gravity of her face, as she listened, and heard 
them divide out the ground, discuss the rival merits of the 
dogs, give orders about firing, and the treatment of each, in 
case of capture. 

Cassy drew back ; and, clasping her hands, looked upward, 
and said, " 0, great Almighty God ! we are all sinners ; but 

vol. ii. 28* 


what have we done, more than all the rest of the world, that 
we should be treated so?" 

There was a terrible earnestness in her face and voice, as 
she spoke. 

"If it wasn't for you, child," she said, looking at Emme- 
line, '-'I'd go out to them; and I'd thank any one of them 
that would shoot me down ; for what use will freedom be to 
me ? Can it give me back my children, or make me what I 
used to be?" 

Emmeline, in her child-like simplicity, was half afraid of 
the dark moods of Cassy. She looked perplexed, but made 
no answer. She only took her hand, with a gentle, caressing 

" Don't!" said Cassy, trying to draw it away; "you'll 
get me to loving you ; and I never mean to" love anything, 
again ! " 

"Poor Cassy!" said Emmeline, "don't feel so! If the 
Lord gives us liberty, perhaps he'H give you back your 
daughter; at any rate, I'll be like a daughter to you. I 
know I '11 never see my poor old mother again ! I shall love 
you, Cassy, whether you love me or not !" 

The gentle, child-like spirit conquered. Cassy sat down 
by her, put her arm round her neck, stroked her soft, brown 
hair; and Emmeline then wondered at the beauty of her 
magnificent eyes, now soft with tears. 

"0, Em!" said Cassy, "I've hungered for my children, 
and thirsted for them, and my eyes fail with longing for 
them! Here! here!" she said, striking her breast, "it's 
all desolate, all empty ! If God would give me back my 
children, then I could pray." 

" You must trust him, Cassy," said Emmeline ; "he is our 


" His wrath is upon us," said Cassj ; " he has turned away 
in anger." 

"No, Cassy! He w^ll be good to us! Let us hope in 
Him," said Emmeline, — " I always have had hope." 

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The hunt was long, animated, and thorough, but unsuccess- 
ful ; and, with grave, ironic exultation, Cassy looked down on 
Legree, as, weary and dispirited, he alighted from his horse. 

" Now, Quimbo," said Legree, as he stretched himself 
down in the sitting-room, "you jest go and walk that Tom 
up here, right away ! The old cuss is at the bottom of this 
yer whole matter ; and I '11 have it out of his old black hide, 
or I '11 know the reason why ! " 

Sambo and Quimbo, both, though hating each other, were 
joined in one mrind by a no less cordial hatred of Tom. Legree 
had told them, at first, that he had bought him for a general 
overseer, in his absence ; and this had begun an ill will, on 
their part, which had increased, in their debased and servile 
natures, as they saw him becoming obnoxious to their mas- 
ter's displeasure. Quimbo, therefore, departed, with a will, to 
execute his orders. 

Tom heard the message with a forewarning heart ; for he 
knew all the plan of the fugitives' escape, and the place of 
their present concealment ; — he knew the deadly character 
of the man he had to deal with, and his despotic power. But 
he felt strong in God to meet death, rather than betray the 

He sat his basket down by the row, and, looking up, said, 
" Into thy hands I commend my spirit ! Thou hast redeemed 
me, oh Lord God of truth!" and then quietly yielded him- 
self to the rough, brutal grasp with which Quimbo seized him. 

"Ay, ay!" said the giant, as he dragged him along; 


" ye '11 cotch it, now ! I '11 boun' Mas'r's back 's up high ! 
No sneaking out, now ! Tell ye, ye '11 get it, and no mis- 
take ! See how ye '11 look, now, helpin' Mas'r's niggers to 
run away ! See what ye '11 get ! " 

The savage words none of them reached that ear! — a 
higher voice there was saying, "Fear not them that kill the 
body, and, after that, have no more that they can do." 
Nerve and bone of that poor man's body vibrated to those 
words, as if touched by the finger of God ; and he felt the 
strength of a thousand souls in one. As he passed along, the 
trees and bushes, the huts of his servitude, the whole scene 
of his degradation, seemed to whirl by him as the landscape 
by the rushing car. His soul throbbed, — his home was in 
sight, — and the hour of release seemed at hand. 

"Well, Tom!" said Legree, walking up, arid seizing him 
grimly by the collar of his coat; and speaking through his 
teeth, in a paroxysm of determined rage, " do you know I 've 
made up my mind to kill you ?" 

"It's very likely, Mas'r," said Tom, calmly. 

"I have" said Legree, with grim, terrible calmness, 
" done — just — that — thing, Tom, unless you'll tell me 
what you know about these yer gals ! " 

Tom stood silent. 

"D'ye hear?" said Legree, stamping, with a roar like 
that of an incensed lion. " Speak ! " 

"I han't got nothing to tell, Mas'r," said Tom, with a 
slow, firm, deliberate utterance. 

" Do you dare to tell me, ye old black Christian, ye don't 
know?" said Legree. 

Tom was silent. 

" Speak ! " thundered Legree, striking him furiously. "Do 
y$u know anything V 


" I know, Mas'r ; but I can't tell anything. I can die ! " 

Legree drew in a long breath ; and, suppressing his rage, 
took Tom by the arm, and, approaching his face almost to his, 
said, in a terrible voice, "Hark'e, Tom! — ye think, 'cause 
I've let you off before, I do&'t mean what I say; but, this 
time, I 've made ujj my mind, and counted the cost. You 've 
always stood it out agin' me : now, I '11 conquer ye, or kill 
ye! — one or t' other. I'll count every drop of blood there 
is in you, and take 'em, one by one, till ye give up ! " 

Tom looked up to his master, and answered, "Mas'r, if 
you was sick, or in trouble, or dying, and I could save ye, 
I 'd give ye my heart's blood ; and, if taking every drop of 
blood in this poor old body would save your precious soul, 
I 'd give 'em freely, as the Lord gave his for me. 0, Mas'r ! 
don't bring this great sin on your soul ! It will hurt you 
more than 't will me ! Do the worst you can, my troubles '11 
be over soon; but, if ye don't repent, yours won't never end ! " 

Like a strange snatch of heavenly music, heard in the lull 
of a tempest, this burst of feeling made a moment's blank 
pause. Legree stood aghast, and looked at Tom ; and there 
was such a silence, that the tick of the old clock could be 
heard, measuring, with silent touch, the last moments of 
mercy and probation to that hardened heart. 

It was but a moment. There was one hesitating pause, — - 
one irresolute, relenting thrill, — and the spirit of evil came 
back, with seven-fold vehemence ; and Legree, foaming with 
rage, smote his victim to the ground. 

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Scenes of blood and cruelty are shocking to our ear and 
heart. What man has nerve to do, man has not nerve to 
hear. What brother-man and brother- Christian must suffer, 
cannot be told us, even in our secret chamber, it so harrows 


up the soul ! And yet, oh my country ! these things are done 
under the shadow of thy laws ! 0, Christ ! thy church sees 
them, almost in silence ! 

But, of old, there was One whose suffering changed an 
instrument of torture, degradation and shame, into a symbol 
of glory, honor, and immortal life ; and, where His spirit is, 
neither degrading stripes, nor blood, nor insults, can make 
the Christian's last struggle less than glorious. 

Was he alone, that long night, whose brave, loving spirit 
was bearing up, in that old shed, against buffeting and brutal 
stripes ? 

Nay ! There stood by him One, — seen by him alone, — 
" like unto the Son of God." 

The tempter stood by him, too, — blinded by furious, des- 
potic will, — every moment pressing him to shun that agony 
by the betrayal of the innocent.- But the brave, true heart 
was firm on the Eternal Rock. Like his Master, he knew 
that, if he saved others, himself he could not save ; nor could 
utmost extremity wring from him words, save of prayer and 
holy trust. 

"He's most gone, Mas'r," said Sambo, touched, in spite 
of himself, by the patience of his victim. 

" Pay away, till he gives up ! Give it to him ! — give it 
to him!" shouted Legree. "I'll take every drop of blood 
he has, unless he confesses ! " 

Tom opened his eyes, and looked upon his master. " Ye 
poor miserable critter ! " he said, " there an't no more ye can 
do! I forgive ye, with all my soul!" and he fainted 
entirely away. 

"I b'lieve, my soul, he's done for, finally," said Legree, 
stepping forward, to look at him. "Yes, he is ! Well, his 
mouth 's shut up, at last, — that 's one comfort ! " 


Yes, Legree ; but who shall shut up that voice in thy soul ? 
that soul, past repentance, past prayer, past hope, in whom 
the fire that never shall be quenched is already burning ! 

Yet Tom was not quite gone. His wondrous words .and 
pious prayers had struck upon the hearts of the imbruted 
blacks, who had been the instruments of cruelty upon him ; 
and, the instant Legree withdrew, they took him down, and., 
in their ignorance, sought to call him back to life, — as if that 
were any favor to him. 

" Sartin, we's been doin' a drefful wicked thing!" said 
Sambo; "hopes Mas'r '11 have to 'count for it, and not we." 

They washed his wounds, — they provided a rude bed, of 
some refuse cotton, for him to lie down on ; and one of them, 
stealing up to the house, begged a drink of brandy of Legree, 
pretending that he was tired, and wanted it for himself. He 
brought it back, and poured it down Tom's throat. 

" 0, Tom ! " said Quimbo, " we 's been awful wicked to ye ! " 

" I forgive ye, with all my heart ! " said Tom, faintly. 

" 0, Tom ! do tell us who is Jesus, anyhow V 1 said Sambo ; 
— " Jesus, that 's been a standin' by you so, all this night ! — 
Who is he?" 

The word roused the failing, fainting spirit. He poured 
forth a few energetic sentences of that wondrous One, — his 
life, his death, his everlasting presence, and power to save. 

They wept, — both the two savage men. 

" Why did n't I never hear this before ? " said Sambo ; " but 
I do believe ! — I can't help it ! Lord Jesus, have mercy on 

" Poor critters ! " said Tom, " I 'd be willing, to bar' all I 
have, if it '11 only bring ye to Christ ! 0, Lord ! give me 
these two more souls, I pray ! " 

That prayer was answered ! 




Two days after, a young man drove a light wagon up 
through the avenue of china-trees, and, throwing the reins 
hastily on the horses' neck, sprang out and inquired for the 
owner of the place. 

It was George Shelby ; and, to show how he came to be 
there, we must go back in our story. 

The letter of Miss Ophelia to Mrs. Shelby had, by some 
unfortunate accident, been detained, for a month or two, at 
some remote post-office, before it reached its destination ; and, 
of course, before it was received, Tom was already lost to 
view among the distant swamps of the Red river. 

Mrs. Shelby read the intelligence with the deepest con- 
cern ; but any immediate action upon it was an impossibility. 
She was then in attendance on the sick-bed of her husband, 
who lay delirious in the crisis of a fever. Master George 
Shelby, who, in the interval, had changed from a boy to a tall 
young man, was her constant and faithful assistant, and her only 
reliance in superintending his father's affairs. Miss Ophelia 
had taken the precaution to send them the name of the lawyer 
who did business for the St. Clares ; and the most that, in the 
emergency, . could be done, was to address a letter of inquiry 
to him. The sudden death of Mr. Shelby, a few days after, 
brought, of course, an absorbing pressure of other interests, 
for a season. 


Mr. Shelby showed his confidence in his wife's ability, by 
appointing her sole executrix upon his estates ; and thus 
immediately a large and complicated amount of business was 
brought upon her hands. 

Mrs. Shelby, with characteristic energy, applied herself to 
the work of straightening the entangled web of affairs ; and 
she and George were for some time occupied with collect" 
ing and examining accounts, selling property and settling 
debts ; for Mrs. Shelby was determined that everything 
should be brought into tangible and recognizable shape, let 
the consequences to her prove -what they might. In the 
mean time, they received a letter from the lawyer to whom 
Miss Ophelia had referred them, saying that he knew nothing 
of the matter ; that the man was sold at a public auction, and 
that, beyond receiving the money, he knew nothing of the 

Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this 
result ; and, accordingly, some six months after, the latter, 
having business for his mother, down the river, resolved to 
visit New Orleans, in person, and push his inquiries, in hopes 
of discovering Tom's whereabouts, and restoring him. 

After some months of unsuccessful search, by the merest 
accident, George fell in with a man, in New Orleans, who 
happened to be possessed of the desired information ; and 
with his money in his pocket, our hero took steamboat for 
Red river, resolving to find out and re-purchase his old friend. 

He was soon introduced into the house, where he found 
Legree in the sitting-room. 

Legree received the stranger with a kind of surly hospi- 

" I understand," said the young man, " that you bought, 
in New Orleans, a boy, named Tom. He used to be on my 
vol. ii. 24 


father's place, and I came to see if I couldn't buy him 

Legree's brow grew dark, and he broke out, passionately : 
" Yes, I did buy such a fellow, — and a h — 1 of a bargain 
I had of it, too ! The most rebellious, saucy, impudent clog ! 
Set up my niggers to run away ; got off two gals, worth eight 
hundred or a thousand dollars apiece. He owned to that, 
and, when I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said 
he knew, but he wouldn't tell; and stood to it, though 1 
gave him the cussedest flogging I ever gave nigger yet. I 
b'lieve he 's trying to die ; but I don't know as he '11 make it 

" Where is he?" said George, impetuously. "Let me see 
him." The cheeks of the young man were crimson, and his 
eyes flashed fire ; but he prudently said nothing, as yet. 

" He's in dat ar shed," said a little fellow, who stood hold- 
ing George's horse. 

Legree kicked the boy, and swore at him ; but George, 
without saying another word, turned and strode to the spot. 

Tom had been lying two days since the fatal night ; not 
suffering, for every nerve of suffering was blunted and 
destroyed. He lay, for the most part, in a quiet stupor ; for 
the laws of a powerful and well-knit frame would not at once 
release the imprisoned spirit. By stealth, there had been 
there, in the darkness of the night, poor desolated creatures, 
who stole from their scanty hours' rest, that they might 
repay to him some of those ministrations of love in which he 
had always been so abundant. Truly, those poor disciples 
had little to give,— only the cup of cold water; but it was 
given with full hearts. 

Tears had fallen on that honest, insensible face, — tears of 
late repentance in the poor, ignorant heathen, whom his dying 


love and patience had awakened to repentance, and bitter 
prayers, breathed over him to a late-found Saviour, of 
whom they scarce knew more than the name, but whom the 
yearning ignorant heart of man never implores in vain. 

Cassy, who had glided out of her place of concealment, 
and ; by over- hearing, learned the sacrifice that had been made 
for her and Emmeline, had been there, the night before, 
defying the danger of detection ; and, moved by the few last 
words which the affectionate soul had yet strength to 
breathe, the long winter of despair, the ice of years, had 
given way, and the dark, despairing woman had wept and 

When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and 
his heart sick. 

"Is it possible, — is it possible? " said he, kneeling down 
by him. " Uncle Tom, my poor, poor old friend ! " 

Something in the voice penetrated to the ear of the dying. 
He moved his head gently, smiled, and said, 

" Jesus can make a dying-bed 
Feel soft as downy pillows are." 

Tears which did honor to his manly heart fell from the 
young man's eyes, as he bent over his poor friend. 

"0, dear Uncle Tom! do wake, — do speak once more! 
Look up ! Here 's Mas'r George, — your own little Mas'r 
George. Don't you know me?" 

" Mas'r George ! " said Tom, opening his eyes, and speak- 
ing in a feeble voice ; "Mas'r George ! " He looked bewil- 

Slowly tne idea seemed to fill his soul ; and the vacant eye 
became fixed and brightened, the whole face lighted up, the 
hard hands clasped, and tears ran down the cheeks. 

" Bless the Lord ! it is, — it is, — it 's all I wanted ! They 


have n't forgot me. It warms my soul ; it does my old heart 
good ! IN ow I shall die content ! Bless the Lord, oh my 
soul ! » 

u You shan't die ! you must n't die, nor think of it ! I 've 
come to buy you, and take you home," said George, with 
impetuous vehemence. 

" 0, Mas'r George, ye 're too late. The Lord's bought 
me, and is going to take me home, — and I long to go. 
Heaven is better than Kintuck." 

" 0, don't die ! It '11 kill me ! — it '11 break my heart to 
think what you 've suffered, — and lying in this old shed, here ! 
Poor, poor fellow I" 

"Don't call me poor fellow!" said Tom, solemnly. "I 

Jtave been poor fellow; but that's all past and gone, now. 

I 'm right in the door, going into glory ! 0, Mas'r George ! 

Heaven has come! I've got the viotory! — the Lord Jesus 

has given it to me ! Glory be to His name ! " 

George was awe-struck at the force, the vehemence, the 
power, with which these broken sentences were uttered. He 
sat gazing in silence. 

Tom grasped his hand, and continued, — " Ye must n't, now, 
tell Chloe, poor soul ! how ye found me ; — 't would be so 
drefful to her. Only tell her ye found me going into glory ; 
and that I could n't stay for no one. And tell her the Lord 's 
stood by me everywhere and al'ays, and made everything 
light and easy. And oh, the poor chil'en, and the baby ! — 
my old heart 's been most broke for 'em, time and agin ! Tell 
'em all to follow me ■ — follow me ! Give my love to Mas'r, 
and dear good Missis, and everybody in the place ! Ye don't 
know ! '^Pears like I loves 'em all ! I loves every creatur' 
cverywhar ! — it 's nothing but love ! 0, Mas'r George i 
what a thing 'tis to be a Christian ! " 


At this moment, Legree sauntered up to the door of the 
shed, looked in, with a dogged air of affected carelessness, and 
turned away. 

" The old satan ! " said George, in his indignation. " It 's 
a comfort to think the devil will pay him for this, some of 
these days ! " 

"0, don't! — oh, ye mustn't!" said Tom, grasping his 
hand; "he's a poor mis'able critter! it's awful to think 
on't! 0, if he only could repent, the Lord would forgive 
him now ; but I 'm 'feared he never will ! " 

" I hope he won't ! " said George; " I never want to see 
him in heaven !" 

" Hush, Mas'r George ! — it worries me ! Don't feel so ! 
He an't done me no real harm, — only opened the gate of the 
kingdom for me ; that 's all ! " 

At thi3 moment, the sudden flush of strength which the joy 
of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man 
gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him ; he closed his 
eyes ; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over 
his face, that told the approach of other worlds. 

He began to draw his breath with long, deep inspirations ; 
and his broad chest rose and fell, heavily. The expression of 
his face was that of a conqueror. 

"Who,— who, — who shall separate us from the love of 
Christ 1 " he said, in a voice that contended with mortal weak- 
ness ; and, with a smile, he fell asleep. 

George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that 
the place was holy ; and, as he closed the lifeless eyes, and 
rose up from the dead, only one thought possessed him, — that 
expressed by his simple old friend, — " What a thing it is to 
be a Christian ! " 

He turned: Legree was standing, sullenly, behind him. 

vol. ii. 24* 


Something in that dying scene had checked the natural 
fierceness of youthful passion. The presence of the man was 
simply loathsome to George ; and he felt only an impulse to 
get away from him, with as few words as possible. 

Fixing his keen dark eyes on Legree, he simply said, 
pointing to the dead, " You have got all you ever can of 
him. What shall I pay you for the body 1 I will take it 
away, and bury it decently." 

" I don't sell dead niggers," said Legree, doggedly. " You 
are welcome to bury him where and when you like." 

" Boys," said George, in an authoritative tone, to two or 
three negroes, who w T ere looking at the body, "help me lift 
him up, and carry him to my wagon ; and get me a spade." 

One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted George 
^o carry the body to the wagon. 

George neither spoke to nor looked at Legree, who did not 
countermand his orders, but stood, whistling, with an air of 
forced unconcern. He sulkily followed them to where the 
wagon stood at the door. 

George spread his cloak in the wagon, and had the body 
carefully disposed of in it, — moving the seat, so as to give it 
room. Then he turned, fixed his eyes on Legree, and said, 
with forced composure, 

" I have not, as yet, said to you what I think of this most 
atrocious affair ; — this is not the time and place. But, sir, 
this innocent blood shall have justice. I will proclaim this 
murder. I will go to the very first magistrate, and expose 

" Do ! " said Legree, snapping his fingers, scornfully. " I 'd 
like to see you doing it. Where you going to get witnesses 9 
— how you going to prove it? — Come, now ! " 

George saw, at once, the force of this defiance. There was 


not a white person on the place ; and, in all southern courts, 
the testimony of colored blood is nothing. He felt, at that 
moment, as if he could have rent the heavens with his heart's 
indignant cry for justice ; but in vain. 

" After all, what a fuss, for a dead nigger ! " said Legree. 

The word was as a spark to a powder magazine. Prudence 
was never a cardinal virtue of the Kentucky boy. George 
turned, and, with one indignant blow, knocked Legree flat 
upon his face ; and, as he stood over him, blazing with wrath 
and defiance, he would have formed no bad personification of 
his great namesake triumphing over the dragon. 

Some men, however, are decidedly bettered by being 
knocked down. If a man lays them fairly flat in the dust, 
they seem immediately to conceive a respect for him ; and 
Legree was one of this sort. As he rose, therefore, an3 
brushed the dust from his clothes, he eyed the slowly-retreat- 
ing wagon with some evident consideration ; nor did he open 
his mouth till it was out of sight. ' 

Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had noticed 
a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees : there they made 
the grave. 

"Shall we take off the cloak, Mas'r?" said the negroes, 
when the grave was ready. 

" No, no, — bury it with him ! It 's all I can give you, 
now, poor Tom, and you shall have it." 

They laid him in ; and the men shovelled away, silently. 
They banked it up, and laid green turf over it. 

" You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter into 
the hand of each. They lingered about, however. 

" If young Mas'r would please buy us—" said one. 

"We 'd serve him so faithful ! " said the other. 


" Hard times here, Mas'r ! " said the first. " Do, Mas'r, 
buy us, please !" 

" I can't ! — I can't ! " said George, with difficulty, motion- 
ing them off; " it 's impossible ! " 

The poor fellows looked dejected, and walked off in silence. 

"Witness, eternal God!" said George, kneeling on the 
grave of his poor friend ; "oh, witness, that, from this hour, 
I will do what one man can to drive out this curse of slav- 
ery from my land ! " 

Thore is no monument to mark the last resting-place of 
our friend. He needs none ! His Lord knows where he lies, 
and will raise him up, immortal, to appear with him when he 
shall appear in his glory. 

Pity him not ! Such a life and death is not for pity ! 
jTot in the riches of omnipotence is the chief glory of God ; 
but in self-denying, suffering love ! And blessed are the men 
whom he calls to fellowship with him, bearing their cross 
after him with patience. Of such it is written, " Blessed are 
they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." 




For some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncom- 
monly rife, about this time, among the servants on l^gree's 

It was whisperingly asserted that -footsteps, in the dead of 
night, had been heard descending the garret stairs, and patrol- 
ling the house. In vain the. doors of the upper entry had been 
locked ; the ghost either carried a duplicate key in its pocket, 
or availed itself of a ghost's immemorial privilege of coming 
through the keyhole, and promenaded as before, with a free- 
dom that was alarming. 

Authorities were somewhat divided, as to the outward form 
of the spirit, owing to a custom quite prevalent among negroes, 
— and, for aught we know, among whites, too, — of invariably 
shutting the eyes, and covering up heads under blankets, petti- 
coats, or whatever else might come in use for a shelter, on these 
occasions*. Of course, as everybody knows, when the bodily 
eyes are thus out of the lists, the spiritual eyes are uncommonly 
vivacious and perspicuous ; and, therefore, there were abun- 
dance of full-length portraits of the ghost, abundantly sworn 
and testified to, which, as is often the case with portraits, 
agreed with each other in no particular, except the common 
family peculiarity of the ghost tribe, — the wearing of a white 
sheet. The poor souls were not versed in ancient history 

286 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN: 016, 

and did not know that Shakspeare had authenticated this 
costume, by telling how 

" The sheeted dead 
Did squeak and gibber in the streets of Rome." 

And j therefore, their all hitting upon this is a striking fact 
in pneumatology, which we recommend to the attention of 
spiritual media generally. 

Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that 
a tall figure in a white sheet did walk, at the most approved 
ghostly hours r around the Legree premises, — pass out the 
doors, glide about the house, — disappear at intervals, and, 
reappearing, pass up tfoe silent stair-way, into that fatal 
garret ; and that, in the morning, the entry doors were all 
found shut and locked as firm as ever. 

Legree could not help overhearing this whispering ; and it 
was all the more exciting to him, from the pains that were 
taken to conceal it from him. He drank more brandy thai 
usual ; held up his head briskly, and swore louder than eve* 
in the day-time; but he had bad dreams, and the visions of h?«* 
head on his bed were anything but agreeable. The nigh* 
after Tom's body had been carried away, he rode to the next 
town for a carouse, and had a high one. Got home late an<* 
tired ; locked his door, took out the key, and went to bed. 

After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it 
down, a human soul is an awful ghostly, unquiet possession 
for a bad man to have. Who knows the metes and bounds 
of it ? Who knows all its awful perhapses, — those shudder- 
ings and tremblings, which it can no more live down than it 
can outlive its own eternity ! What a fool is he who locks 
his door to keep out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit j 
he dares not meet alone, — whose voice, smothered far down, 


and piled over with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the 
forewarning trumpet of doom ! 

But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it ; 
he set a night-lamp at the head of his bed ; and he put his 
pistols there. He examined the catches and fastenings of the 
windows, and then swore he " did n't care for the devil and all 
his angels," and went to sleep. 

Well, he slept, for he was tired, — slept soundly. But, 
finally, there came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an 
apprehension of something dreadful hanging over him. It 
was his mother's shroud, he thought ; but Cassy had it, hold- 
ing it up, and showing it to him. He heard a confused 
noise of screams and groanings ; »d, with it all, he knew 
he was asleep, and he struggled to wake himself. He was 
half awake. He was sure something was coming into his 
room. He knew the door was opening, but he could not 
stir hand or foot. At last he turned, with a start ; the door 
was open, and he saw a hand putting out his light. 

It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it ! — 
something white, gliding in ! He heard the still rustle of its 
ghostly garments. It stood still by his bed ; — a cold hand 
touched his ; a voice said, three times, in a low, fearful wnis- 
per, "Come! come! come!" And, while he lay sweating 
with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was gone- 
He sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. It was shut 
and locked, and the man fell down in a swoon. 

After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever 
before. He no longer drank cautiously, prudently, but 
imprudently and recklessly. 

There were reports around the country, soon after, that he 
was sick and dying. Excess had brought on that frightful 
disease that seems to throw the lurid shadows of a coming 


retribution back into the present life. None could bear the 
horrors of that sick room, when he raved and screamed, and 
spoke of sights which almost stopped the blood of those who 
heard him; and, at his dying bed, stood a stern, white, inexor- 
able figure, saying, " Come ! come ! come ! " 

By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this 
vision appeared to Legree, the house-door was found open in 
the morning, and some of the negroes had seen two white 
figures gliding down the avenue towards the high-road. 

It was near sunrise when Gassy and Emmeline paused, for 
a moment, in a little knot of trees near the town. 

Cassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanish 
ladies, — wholly in blaclj| A small black bonnet on her head, 
covered by a veil thick with embroidery, concealed her face. 
It had been agreed that, in their escape, she was to personate 
the character of a Creole lady, and Emmeline that of her 

Brought up, from early life, in connection with the highest 
society, the language, movements and air of Cassy, were all 
in agreement with this idea; and she had still enough remain- 
ing with her, of a once splendid wardrobe, and sets of jewels, 
to Enable her to personate the thing to advantage. 

She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had 
noticed trunks for sale, and purchased a handsome one. This 
she requested the man to send along with her. And, accord- 
ingly, thus escorted by a boy wheeling her trunk, and Emme- 
line behind her, carrying her carpet-bag and sundry bundles, 
she made her appearance at the small tavern, like a lady of 

The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was 
George Shelby, who was staying there, awaiting the next 


Casxy had remarked the young man from her loop-hole in 
the garret, and seen him bear away the body of Tom, and 
observed, with secret exultation, his rencontre with Legree. 
Subsequently, she had gathered, from the conversations she 
had overheard among the negroes, as she glided about in her 
ghostly disguise, after nightfall, who he was, and in what 
relation he stood to Tom. She, therefore, felt an immediate 
accession of confidence, when she found that he was, like 
herself, awaiting the next boat. 

Cassy's air and manner, address, and evident command of 
money, prevented any rising disposition to suspicion in tho 
hotel. People never inquire too closely into those who are 
fair on the main point, of paying well, — a thing which Gassy 
had foreseen when she provided herself with money. 

In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along, 
and George Shelby handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness 
which comes naturally to every Kentuckian, and exerted him- 
self to provide her with a good state-room. 

Cassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, during 
the whole time they were on Red river ; and was waited on, 
with obsequious devotion, by her attendant. 

When they arrived at the Mississippi river, George, having 
learned that the course of the strange lady was upward, like 
his own, proposed to take a state-room for her on the same 
boat with himself, — good-naturedly compassionating her fee- 
ble health, and desirous to do what he could to assist her. 

Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred to the 
good steamer Cincinnati, and sweeping up the river under a 
powerful head of steam. 

Cassy's health was much better. She sat upon the guards, 
came to the table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a 
lady that must have been very handsome. 

vol. II. 25 

290 uncle tom's cabin : or, 

From the moment that George got the first glimpse of her 
face, he was troubled with one of those fleeting and indefinite 
likenesses, which almost everybody can remember, and has 
been, at times, perplexed with. He could not keep himself 
from looking at her, and watching her perpetually. At table, 
or sitting at her state-room door, still she would encounter 
the young man's eyes fixed on her, and politely withdrawn, 
when she showed, by her countenance, that she was sensible 
of the observation. 

Cassy became uneasy. She began to think that he sus- 
pected something; and finally resolved to throw herself 
entirely on his generosity, and intrusted him with her whole 

George was heartily disposed to sympathize with any one 
who had escaped from Legree's plantation, — a place that he 
could not remember or speak of with patience, — and, with 
the courageous disregard of consequences which is charac- 
teristic of his age and state, he assured her that he would do 
all in his power to protect and bring them through. 

The next state-room to Cassy' s was occupied by a French 
lady, named De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little 
daughter, a child of some twelve summers. 

This lady, having gathered, from George's conversation, 
that he was from Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to 
cultivate his acquaintance '; in which design she was seconded 
by the graces of her little girl, who was about as pretty a 
plaything as ever diverted the weariness of a fortnight's trip 
on a steamboat. 

George's chair was often placed at her state-room door; and 
Cassy, as she sat upon the guards, could hear their conver- 

Madam© de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to 


Kentucky, where she said she had resided in a former period 
of her life. George discovered, to his surprise, that her for- 
mer residence must have been in his own vicinity ; and her 
inquiries showed a knowledge of people and things in his 
region, that was perfectly surprising to him. 

"Do you know," said Madame de Thoux to him, one day 
" of any man, in your neighborhood, of the name of Harris 1 " 

" There is an old fellow, of that name, lives not far from 
my father's place," said George. "We never have had much 
intercourse with him, though." 

"He is a large slave-owner, I believe," said Madame de 
Thoux, with a manner which seemed to betray more interest 
than she was exactly willing to show. 

"He is," said George, looking rather surprised at her 

"Did you ever know of his having — perhaps, you may 
have heart? of his having a mulatto boy, named George ?" 

"0, certainly, — George Harris, — I know him well; he 
married a servant of my mother's, but has escaped, now, to 

" He has ? " said Madame de Thoux, quickly. " Thank 
God ! " 

George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing. 

Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst 
into tears. 

" He is my brother," she said. 

" Madame ! " said George, with a strong accent of sur- 

"Yes," said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head, proudly, 
and wiping her tears; "Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my 
brother ! " 

292 UNCLE tom's cabin : OR, 

"I am perfectly astonished," said George, pushing back 
Lis chair a pace or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux. 

"I was sold to the South when he was a boy," said she. 
"I was bought by a good and generous man. Ho took me 
with him to the West Indies, set me free, and married me. 
It is but lately that he died ; and I was coming up to Ken- 
tucky, to see if I could find and redeem my brother." 

"I have heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold 
South," said George. 

"Yes, indeed ! I am the one," said Madame de Thoux; — 
" tell me what sort of a — " 

"A very fine young man," said George, "notwithstand- 
ing the curse of slavery that lay on him. He sustained a 
first rate character, both for intelligence and principle. I 
know, you see," he said; "because he married in our 

" What sort of a girl ? " said Madame de Thoux, eagerly. 

"A treasure," said George; "a beautiful, intelligent, amia- 
ble girl. Very pious. My mother had brought her up, and 
trained her as carefully, almost, as a daughter. She could 
read and write, embroider and sew, beautifully ; and was a 
beautiful singer." 

" Was she born in your house ? " said Madame de Thoux. 

" No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New 
Orleans, and brought her up as a present to mother. She 
was about eight or nine years old, then. Father would never 
tell mother what he gave for her; but, the other day, in look- 
ing over his old papers, we came across the bill of sale. He 
paid an extravagant sum for her, to be sure. I suppose, on 
account of her extraordinary beauty." 

George sat with his back to Cassy, and did not see the 


• ' *' ' ' ■— • > " ' 

absorbed expression of her countenance, as he was giving 
these details. 

At this point in the story, she touched his arm, and, with a 
face perfectly white with interest, said, "Do you know tho 
names of the people he bought her of ? " 

" A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the princi- 
pal in the transaction. At least, I think that was the name 
on the bill of sale." 

"0, my God! " said Cassy, and fell insensible on the floor 
of the cabin. 

George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de 
Thoux. Though neither of them could conjecture what was 
the cause of Cassy" s fainting, still they made all the tumult 
which is proper in such cases ; — George upsetting a wash- 
pitcher, and breaking two tumblers, in the warmth of his 
humanity ; and various ladies in the cabin, hearing that 
somebody had fainted, crowded the state-room door, and kept 
out all the air they possibly could, so that, on the whole, every- 
thing was done that could be expected. 

Poor Cassy ! when she recovered, turned her face to the 
wall, and wept and sobbed like a child, — perhaps, mother, 
you can tell what she was thinking of! Perhaps you cannot, 
— but she felt as sure, in that hour, that God had had mercy 
on her, and that she should see her daughter, — as she did, 
months afterwards, — when — but we anticipate. 

vol. ii. 25* 

294 uncle tom's cabin: or, 



The rest of our story is soon told. George Shelby ; 
interested, as any other young man might be, by the romance 
of the incident, no less than by feelings of humanity, 
was at the pains to send to Cassy the bill of sale of Eliza ; 
■whose date and name all corresponded with her own knowl- 
edge of facts, and left no doubt upon her mind as to the 
identity of her child. It remained now only for her to trace 
out the path of the fugitives. 

Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the 
singular coincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immediately 
to Canada, and began a tour of inquiry among the stations, 
where the numerous fugitives from slavery are located. At 
Amherstberg they found the missionary with whom George 
and Eliza had taken shelter, on their first arrival in Canada ; 
and through him were enabled to trace the family to Mon- 

George and Eliza had now been five years free. Georgs 
had found constant occupation in the shop of a worthy 
machinist, where he had been earning a competent support 
for his family, which, in the mean time, had been increased by 
the addition of another daughter. 

Little Harry — a fine bright boy — had been put to a good 
school, and was making rapid proficiency in knowledge. 


The worthy pastor of the station, in Amherstberg, where 
George had first landed, was so much interested in the state- 
ments of Madame de Thoux and Cassy, that he yielded to 
the solicitations of the former, to accompany them to Mon- 
treal, in their search, — she bearing all the expense of the 

The scene now changes to a small, neat tenement, in the 
outskirts of Montreal ; the time, evening. A cheerful fire 
blazes on the hearth ; a tea-table, covered with a snowy cloth, 
stands prepared for the evening meal. In one corner of the 
room was a table covered with a green cloth, where was an 
open writing-desk, pens, paper, and over it a shelf of well- 
selected books. 

This was George's study. The same zeal for self-improve- 
ment, which led him to steal the much coveted arts of reading 
and writing, amid all the toils and discouragements of his 
early life, still led him to devote all his leisure time to self- 

At this present time, he is seated at the table, making 
notes from a volume of the family library he has been 

" Come, George," says Eliza, "you've been gone all day. 
Do put down that book, and let 's talk, while I 'm getting tea, 

And little Eliza seconds the effort, by toddling up to her 
father, and trying to pull the book out of his hand, and install 
hers&f on his knee as a substitute. 

" 0, you little witch!" says George, yielding, as, in such 
circumstances, man always must. 

"That 's right," says Eliza, as she begins to cut a loaf of 
bread. A little older she looks; her form a little fuller; 


her air more matronly than of yore; but evidently con- 
tented and happy as woman need be. 

' 'Harry, my boy, how did you come on in that sum, 
to-day?" says George, as he laid his hand on his son's 

Harry has lost his long curls ; but he can never lose those 
eyes and eyelashes, and that fine, bold brow, that flushes with 
triumph, as he answers, "I did it, every bit of it. my self * 
father ; and nobody helped. me ! " 

"That's right," says his father; "depend on yourself, 
my son. You have a better chance than ever your poor 
father had." 

At this moment, there is a rap at the door ; and Eliza goes 
and opens it. The delighted — " Why ! — this you ? " — 
calls up her husband ; and the good pastor of Amherstberg 
is welcomed. There are two more women with him, and Eliza 
asks them to sit down. 

Now, if the truth must be told, the honest pastor had 
arranged a little programme, according to which this affair 
was to develop itself; and, on the way up, all had very 
cautiously and prudently exhorted each other not to let 
things out, except according to previous arrangement. 

What was the good man's consternation, therefore, just as 
he had motioned to the ladies to be seated, and was taking 
out his pocket-handkerchief to wipe his mouth, so as to 
proceed to his introductory speech in good order, when 
Madame de Thoux upset the whole plan, by throwing her 
arms around George's neck, and letting all out at once, by 
saying, u O, George! don't you know me? I'm your 
sister Emily." 

Cassy had seated herself more composedly, and would have 
carried on her part very well, had not little Eliza suddenly 


appeared before her in exact shape and form, every outline 
and curl, just as her daughter was when she saw her last. 
The little thing peered up in her face ; and Cassy caught her 
up in her arms, pressed her to her bosom, saying, what 
at the moment she really believed, "Darling, I'm your 
mother !" 

In fact, it was a troublesome matter to do up exactly in 
proper order ; but the good pastor, at last, succeeded in 
getting everybody quiet, and delivering the speech with 
which he had intended to open the exercises ; and in which, 
at last, he succeeded so well, that his whole audience were 
sobbing about him in a manner that ought to satisfy any 
orator, ancient or modern. 

They knelt together, and the good man prayed, — for there 
are some feelings so agitated and tumultuous, that they can 
find rest only by being poured into the bosom of Almighty 
love, — and then, rising up, the new-found family embraced 
each other, with a holy trust in Him, who from such peril 
and dangers, and by such unknown ways, had brought them 

The note-book of a missionary, among the Canadian fugi- 
tives, contains truth stranger than fiction. How can it be 
otherwise, when a system prevails which whirls families and 
scatters their members, as the wind whirls and scatters 
the leaves of autumn? These shores of refuge, like the 
eternal shore, often unite again, in glad communion, hearts 
that for long years have mourned each other as lost. And 
affecting beyond expression is the earnestness with which 
every new arrival among them is met, if, perchance, it may 
bring tidings of mother, sister, child or wife, still lost to view 
in the shadows of slavery. 

Deeds of heroism are wrought here more than those of 


romance, when, defying torture, and braving death itself, the 
fugitive voluntarily threads his way back to the terrors and 
perils of that dark land, that he may bring out his sister, or 
mother, or wife. 

One young man, of whom a missionary has told us, twice 
re-captured, and suffering shameful stripes for his heroism, 
had escaped again ; and, in a letter which we heard read, tells 
his friends that he is going back a third time, that he may, at 
last, bring away his sister. My good sir, is this man a hero, 
or a criminal 1 Would not you do as much for your sister ? 
And can you blame him ? 

But, to return to our friends, whom we left wiping their 
eyes, and recovering themselves from too great and sudden a 
joy. They are now seated around the social board, and aro 
getting decidedly companionable ; only that Cassy, who keeps, 
little Eliza on her lap, occasionally squeezes the little thing, 
in a manner that rather astonishes her, and obstinately 
refuses to have her mouth stuffed with cake to the extent the 
little one desires, — alleging, what the child rather wonders at, 
that she has got something better than cake, and does n't 
want it. 

And, indeed, in two or three days, such a change has 
passed over Cassy, that our readers would scarcely know her. 
The despairing, haggard expression of her face had given 
way to one of gentle trust. She seemed to sink, at once, into 
the bosom of the family, and take the little ones into her 
heart, as something for which it long had waited. Indeed, 
her love seemed to flow more naturally to the little Eliza 
than to her own daughter ; for she was the exact image and 
body of the child whom she had lost. The little one was a 
flowery bond between mother and daughter, through whom 
grew up acquaintanceship and affection. Eliza's steady, con- 


eistent piety, regulated by the constant reading of the sacred 
word, made her a proper guide for the shattered and wearied 
mind of her mother. Cassy yielded at once, and with her 
whole soul, to every good influence, and became a devout 
and tender Christian. 

After a day or two, Madame de Thoux told her brother 
more particularly of her affairs. The death of her husband 
had left her an ample fortune, which she generously offered 
to share with the family. When she asked George what 
way she could best apply it for him, he answered, " Give me 
an education, Emily ; that has always been my heart's desire. 
Then, I can do all the rest." 

On mature deliberation, it was decided that the whole 
family should go, for some years, to France ; whither they 
sailed, carrying Emmeline with them. 

The good looks of the latter won the affection of the first 
mate of the vessel ; and, shortly after entering the port, she 
became his w T ife. 

George remained four years at a French university, and, 
applying himself with an unintermitted zeal, obtained a very 
thorough education. 

Political troubles in France, at last, led the family again 
to seek an asylum in this country. 

George's feelings and views, as an educated man, may be 
best expressed in a letter to one of his friends. 

" I feel somewhat at a loss, as to my future course. True, 
as you have said to me, I might mingle in the circles of tho 
whites, in this country, my shade of color is so slight, and 
that of my wife and family scarce perceptible. Well, 
perhaps, on sufferance, I might. But, to tell you the truth, 
I have no wish to. 

" My sympathies are not for my father's race, but for my 


mother's. To him I was no more than a fine dog or horse : 
to my poor heart-broken mother I was a child ; and, though 
I never saw her, after the cruel sale that separated us, till she 
died, yet I know she always loved me dearly. I know it by 
my own heart. When I think of all she suffered, of my own 
early sufferings, of the distresses and struggles of my heroic 
wife, of my sister, sold in the New Orleans slave-market, — 
though I hope to have no unchristian sentiments, yet I may 
be excused for saying, I have no wish to pass for an Amer- 
ican, or to identify myself with them. 

"It is with the oppressed, enslaved African race that I 
cast in my lot ; and, if I wished anything, I would wish my- 
self two shades darker, rather than one lighter. 

" The desire and yearning of my soul is for an African 
nationality. I want a people that shall have a tangible, 
separate existence -of its own ; and where am I to look for it ? 
Not in Hayti ; for in Hayti they had nothing to start with. 
A stream cannot rise above its fountain. The race that 
formed the character of the Haytiens was a worn-out, effem- 
inate one ; and, of course, the subject race will be centuries in 
rising to anything. 

" Where, then, shall I look ? On the shores of Africa I 
see a republic, — a republic formed of picked men, who, by 
energy and self-educating force, have, in many cases, individ- 
ually, raised themselves above a condition of slavery. Having 
gone through a preparatory stage of feebleness, this republic 
has, at last, become an acknowledged nation on the face of 
the earth, — acknowledged by both France and England. 
There it is my wish to go, and find myself a peopie. 

" I am aware, now, that I shall have you all against me ; 
but, before you strike, hear me. During my stay in France, 
I have followed up, with intense interest, the history of my 


people in America. I have noted the struggle between abo- 
litionist and colonizationist, and have received some impres- 
sions, as a distant spectator, which could never have occurred 
to me as a participator. 

" I grant that this Liberia may have subserved all sorts of 
purposes, by being played off, in the hands of our oppressors, 
against us. Doubtless the scheme may have been used, in 
unjustifiable ways, as a means of retarding our emancipation. 
But the question to me is, Is there not a God above all man's 
schemes ? May He not have overruled their designs, and 
founded for us a nation by them ? 

" In these days, a nation is born in a day. A nation starts, 
now, with all the great problems of republican life and civil- 
ization wrought out to its hand ; — it has not to discover, but 
only to apply. Let us, then, all take hold together, with all 
our might, and see what we can do with this new enterprise, 
and the whole splendid continent of Africa opens before us 
and our children. Our nation shall roll the tide of civiliza- 
tion and Christianity along its shores, and plant there mighty 
republics, that, growing with the rapidity of tropical vege- 
tation, shall be for all coming ages. 

" Do you say that I am deserting my enslaved brethren? 
I think not. If I forget them one hour, one moment of my 
life, so may God forget me ! But, what can I do for them, 
here 1 Can I break their chains 1 No, not as an individual ; 
but, let me go and form part of a nation, which shall have a 
voice in the councils of nations, and then we can speak. A 
nation has a right to argue, remonstrate, implore, and present 
the cause of its race, — which an individual has not. 

" If Europe ever becomes a grand council of free nations, 
— as I trust in God it will, — if, there, serfdom, and all unjust 
and oppressive social inequalities, are done away ; and if they, 

vol. ii. 26 


as France and England have done, acknowledge our position, 
— then, in the great congress of nations, we will make our 
appeal, and present the cause of our enslaved and suffering 
race ; and it cannot be that free, enlightened America will 
not then desire to wipe from her escutcheon that bar sinister 
which disgraces her among nations, and is as truly a curse to 
her as to the enslaved. 

" But, you will tell me, our race have equal rights to 
mingle in the American republic as the Irishman, the German, 
the Swede. Granted, they have. We ought to be free to 
meet and mingle, — to rise by our individual worth, without 
any consideration of caste or color ; and they who deny us 
this right are false to their own professed principles of human 
equality. We ought, in particular, to be allowed here. We 
have more than the rights of common men ; — we have the 
claim of an injured race for reparation. But, then, i" do not 
want it; I want a country, a nation, of my own. I think 
that the African race has peculiarities, yet to be unfolded in 
the light of civilization and Christianity, which, if not the 
same with those of the Anglo-Saxon, may prove to be, morally, 
of even a higher type. 

" To the Anglo-Saxon race has been intrusted the destinies 
of the world, during its pioneer period of struggle and conflict. 
To that mission its stern, inflexible, energetic elements, were 
well adapted ; but, as a Christian, I look for another era to 
arise. On its borders I trust we stand ; and the throes that 
now convulse the nations are, to my hope, but the birth-pangs 
of an hour of universal peace and brotherhood. 

" I trust that the development of Africa is to be essentially 
a Christian one. If not a dominant and commanding race, 
they are, at least, an affectionate, magnanimous, and forgiving 
one. Having been called in the farnace of injustice and 


oppression, they have need to bind closer to their hearts that 
sublime doctrine of love and forgiveness, through which alone 
they are to conquer, which it is to be their mission to spread 
over the continent of Africa. 

" In myself, I confess, I am feeble for this, — full half the 
blood in my veins is the hot and hasty Saxon ; but I have an 
eloquent preacher of the Gospel ever by my side, in the per- 
son of my beautiful wife. When I wander, her gentler spirit 
ever restores me, and keeps before my 'ryes the Christian 
calling and mission of our race. As a Christian patriot, as a 
teacher of Christianity, I go to my country, — my chosen, my 
glorious Africa ! — and to her, in my heart, I sometimes 
apply those splendid words of prophecy : ' Whereas thou hast 
been forsaken and hated, so that no man went through thee ; 
/ will make thee an eternal excellence, a joy of many gene- 
rations ! ' 

"You will call me an enthusiast : you will tell me that I 
have not well considered what I am undertaking. But I have 
considered, and counted the cost. I go to Liberia, not as to 
an Elysium of romance, but as to afield of work. I expect 
to work with both hands, — to work hard ; to work against 
all sorts of difficulties and discouragements ; and to work till 
I die. This is what I go for ; and in this I am quite sure I 
shall not be disappointed. 

"Whatever you may think of my determination, do not 
divorce me from your confidence ; and think that, in whatever 
I do, I act with a heart wholly given to my people. 

"George Harris." 

George, with his wife, children, sister and mother, embarked 
for Africa, some few weeks after. If we are not mistaken, 
the world will yet hear from him there. 


Of our other characters we have nothing very particular to 
write, except a word relating to Miss Ophelia and Topsy, and 
a farewell chapter, which we shall dedicate to George Shelby. 

Miss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, much 
to the surprise of that grave deliberative body whom a New 
Englander recognizes under the term " Our folks" " Our 
folks, ''" at first, thought it an odd and unnecessary addi- 
tion to their well-trained domestic establishment; but, so 
thoroughly efficient was Miss Ophelia in her conscientious 
endeavor to do her duty by her eleve, that the child rapidly 
grew in grace and in favor with the family and neighborhood. 
At the age of womanhood, she was, by her own request, bap- 
tized, and became a member of the Christian church in the 
place ; and showed so much intelligence, activity and zeal, and 
desire to do good in the world, that she was at last recom- 
mended, and approved, as a missionary to one of the stations 
in Africa ; and we have heard that the same activity and inge- 
nuity which, when a child, made her so multiform and rest- 
less in her developments, is now employed, in a safer and 
wholesomer manner, in teaching the children of her own 

P. S. — It will be a satisfaction to some mother, also, to 
state, that some inquiries, which were set on foot by Madame 
de Thoux, have resulted recently in the discovery of Cassy's 
sen. Being a young man of energy, he had escaped, some 
years before his mother, and been received and educated by 
friends of the oppressed in the north. He will soon follow his 
family to Africa. 




George Shelby had written to his mother merely a line> 
stating the day that she might expect him home. Of the 
death scene of his old friend he had not the heart to write. 
He had tried several times, and only succeeded in half chok- 
ing himself; and invariably finished by tearing up the paper, 
wiping his eyes, and rushing somewhere to get quiet. 

There was a pleased bustle all through the Shelby man- 
sion, that day, in expectation of the arrival of young Mas'r 

Mrs. Shelby was seated in her comfortable parlor, where a 
cheerful hickory fire was dispelling the chill of the late 
autumn evening. A supper-table, glittering with plate and 
cut glass, was set out, on whose arrangements our former 
friend, old Chloe, was presiding. 

Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean, white apron, and 
high, well-starched turban, her black polished face glowing 
with satisfaction, she lingered, with needless punctiliousness, 
around the arrangements of the table, merely as an excuse for 
talking a little to her mistress. 

"Laws, now! won't it look natural to him?" she said 
"Thar, — I set his plate just whar he likes it, — round by the 
fire. Mas'r George allers wants de warm seat. 0, go way ! 
■ — why didn't Sally get out de best tea-pot, — de little new 
one, Mas'r George got for Missis, Christmas ? I '11 have it 
vol. ii. 26* 


out ! And Missis has heard from Mas'r George ? " she said, 

" Yes, Chloe ; but only a line, just to say he would be 
home to-night, if he could, — that 's all." 

" Did n't say nothin' 'bout my old man, s'pose?" said 
Chloe, still fidgeting -with the tea-cups. 

" No, he did n't. He did not speak of anything, Chloe. 
He said he would tell all, when he got home." 

" Jes like Mas'r George, —he 's allers so ferce for tellin' 
everything hisself. I allers minded dat ar in Mas'r George. 
Don't see, for my part, how white people gen'lly can bar to 
hev to write things much as they do, writin' 's such slow, 
oneasy kind o' work." 

Mrs. Shelby smiled. 

" I 'm a thinkin' my old man won't know de boys and de 
baby. Lor' ! she 's de biggest gal, now, — good she is, too, 
and peart, Polly is. She 's out to the house, now, watch- 
in' de hoe-cake. I 's got jist de very pattern my old man 
liked so much, a bakin'. Jist sich as I gin him the mornin' 
he was took off. Lord bless us ! how I felt, dat ar morn- 
ing ! " 

Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her heart, 
at this allusion. She had felt uneasy, ever since she received 
her son's letter, lest something should prove to be hidden 
behind the veil of silence which he had drawn. 

" Missis has got dem bills ? " said Chloe, anxiously. 

"Yes, Chloe." 

" 'Cause I wants to show my old man dem very bi r 3 de 
verfectioner gave me. 'And,' says he, l Chloe, I wish 3. >u 'd 
stay longer.' ' Thank you, Mas'r,' says I, ' I would, only 
my old man 's coming home, and Missis, — she can't do with- 


out me no longer.' There 's jist what I telled him. Berry 
nice man, dat Mas'r Jones was." 

Chloe had pertinaciously insisted that the very bills in 
which her wages had been paid should be preserved, to 
show to her husband, in memorial of her capability. And 
Mrs. Shelby had readily consented to humor her in the 

" He won't know Polly, — my old man won't. Laws, it's 
five year since they tuck him ! She was a baby den, — 
could n't but jist stand. Remember how tickled he used to 
be, cause she would keep a fallin' over, when she sot out to 
walk. Laws a me ! " 

The rattling of wheels now was heard. 

" Mas'r George !" said Aunt Chloe, starting to the win 

Mrs. Shelby ran to the entry door, and was folded in the 
arms of her son. Aunt Chloe stood anxiously straining her 
eyes out into the darkness. 

u O, poor Aunt Chloe ! " said George, stopping compas- 
sionately, and taking her hard, black hand between both his; 
"I'd have given all my fortune to have brought him witn 
me, but he 's gone to a better country." 

There was a passionate exclamation from Mrs. Shelby, but 
Aunt Chloe said nothing. 

The party entered the supper-room. The money, of which 
Chloe was so proud, was still lying on the table. 

"Thar," said she, gathering it up, and holding it, with a 
trembling hand, to her mistress, "don't never want to see nor 
hear on 't again. Jist as I knew 't would be, — sold, and 
murdered on dem ar' old plantations ! " 

Chloe turned, and was walking proudly out of the room. 


Mrs. Shelby followed her softly, and took one of her hands, 
drew her down into a chair, and sat down by her. 

" My poor, good Chloe ! " said she. 

Chloe leaned her head on her mistress' shoulder, and 
sobbed out, "0 Missis! 'scuse me, my heart's broke, — 
dat 's all ! " 

"I know it is," said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast; 
"and / cannot heal it, but Jesus can. He healeth the bro- 
ken hearted, and bindeth up their wounds." 

There was a silence for some time, and all wept together. 
At last, George, sitting down beside the mourner, took her 
hand, and, with simple pathos, repeated the triumphant scene 
of her husband's death, and his last messages of love. 

About a month after this, one morning, all the servants of 
the Shelby estate were convened together in the great hall 
that ran through the house, to hear a few words from their 
young master. 

To the surprise of all, he appeared among them with a 
bundle of papers in his hand, containing a certificate of free- 
dom to every one on the place, which he read successively, 
and presented, amid the sobs and tears and shouts of all 

Many, however, pressed around him, earnestly begging 
him not to send them away ; and, with anxious faces, tender- 
ing back their free papers. 

" We don't want to be no freer than we are. We 's allers 
had all we wanted. We don't want to leave de ole place, and 
Mas'r and Missis, and de rest ! " 

"My good friends," said George, as soon as he could get 
a silence, "there'll be no need for you to leave me. The 
place wants as many hands to work it as it did before. We 
need the same about the house that we did before. But, 


you are now free men and free women. I shall pay you 
wages for your work, such as we shall agree on. The advan- 
tage is, that in case of my getting in debt, or dying, — things 
that might happen, — you cannot now be taken up and sold. 
I expect to carry on the estate, and to teach you what, per- 
haps, it will take you some time to learn, — how to use the 
rights I give you as free men and women. I expect you U 
be good, and willing to learn ; and I trust in God that I shall 
be faithful, and willing to teach. And now, my friends, look 
up, and thank God for the blessing of freedom." 

An aged, patriarchal negro, who had grown gray and blind 
on the estate, now rose, and, lifting his trembling hand said, 
"Let us give thanks unto the Lord ! " As all kneeled by 
one consent, a more touching and hearty Te Deum never 
ascended to heaven, though borne on the peal of organ, bell 
and cannon, than came from that honest old heart. 

On rising, another struck up a Methodist hymn, of which 
the burden was, 

" The year of Jubilee is come, — 
Return, ye ransomed sinners, home.*' 

" One thing more," said George, as he stopped the con- 
gratulations of the throng ; "you all remember our good old 
Uncle Tom?" 

George here gave a short narration of the scene of his 
death, and of h.U loving farewell to all on the place, and 

"It was on his grave, my friends, that I resolved, before 
God, that I would never own another slave, while it was pos- 
sible to free him ; that nobody, through me, should ever 
run the risk of being parted from home and friends, and 
dying on a lonely plantation, as he died. So, when you 


rejoice in your freedom, think that you owe it to that good 
old soul, and pay it back in kindness to his wife and children. 
Think of your freedom, every time you see Uncle Tom's 
Cabin ; and let it be a memorial to put you all in mind to 
follow in his steps, and be as honest and faithful and Christian 
as he was." 



The writer has often been inquired of, by correspondents 
from different parts of the country, whether this narrative is 
a true one ; and to these inquiries she will give one general 

The separate incidents that compose the narrative are, to a 
very great extent, authentic, occurring, many of them, either 
under her own observation, or that of her personal friends. 
She or her friends have observed characters the counterpart 
of almost all that are here introduced ; and many of the say- 
ings are word for word as heard herself, or reported to her. 

The personal appearance of Eliza, the chai acter ascribed to 
her, are sketches drawn from life. The incorruptible fidelity, 
piety and honesty, of Uncle Tom, had more than one develop- 
ment, to her personal knowledge. Some of the most deeply 
tragic and romantic, some of the most terrible incidents, have 
also their parallel in reality. The incident of the mother's cross- 
ing the Ohio river on the ice is a well-known fact. The story 


of "old Prue," in the second volume, was an incident that 
fell under the personal observation of a brother of the writer, 
then collecting-clerk to a large mercantile house, in New 
Orleans. From the same source was derived the character of 
the planter Legree. Of him her brother thus wrote, speaking 
of visiting his plantation, on a collecting tour: "He act- 
ually made me feel of his' fist, which was like a blacksmith'3 
hammer, or a nodule of iron, telling me that it was ' calloused 
with knocking down niggers.' When I left the plantation, I 
drew a long breath, and felt as if I had escaped from an 
ogre's den." 

That the tragical fate of Tom, also, has too many times had 
its parallel, there are living witnesses, all over our land, to 
testify. Let it be remembered that in all southern states it 
is a principle of jurisprudence that no person of- colored 
lineage can testify in a suit against a white, and it will be easy 
to see that such a case may occur, wherever there is a man 
whose passions outweigh his interests, and a slave who has man- 
hood or principle enough to resist his will. There is, actually, 
nothing to protect the slave's life, but the character of the 
master. Facts too shocking to be contemplated occasionally 
force their way to the public ear, and the comment that one 
^ften hears made on them is more shocking than the thing itself. 
It is said, " Very likely such cases may. now and then occur, 
but they are no sample of general practice." If the laws of 
New England were so ^arranged that a master could nolo 
and then torture an apprentice to death, without a possi- 
bility of being brought to justice, would it be received with 
equal composure 1 Would it be said, " These cases are rare, 
and no samples of general practice"? This injustice is an 
inherent one in the slave system, — it cannot exist without it. 

The public and shameless sale of beautiful mulatto and 


quadroon girls has acquired a notoriety, from the incidents 
following the capture of the Pearl. We extract the following 
from the speech of Hon. Horace Mann, one of the legal 
counsel for the defendants in that case. He says : "In that 
company of seventy-six persons, who attempted, in 1848, to 
escape from the District of Columbia in the schooner Pearl, 
and whose officers I assisted in defending, there were several 
young and healthy girls, who had those peculiar attractions 
of form and feature which connoisseurs prize so highly, 
Elizabeth Russel was one of them. She immediately fell 
into the slave-trader's fangs, and was doomed for the New 
Orleans market. The hearts of those that saw her were 
touched with pity for her fate. They offered eighteen hun- 
dred dollars to redeem her ; and some there were who offered 
to give, that would not have much left after the gift; but 
the fiend of a slave-trader was inexorable. She was des- 
patched to New Orleans ; but, when about half way there, God 
had mercy on her, and smote her with death. There were 
two girls named Edmundson in the same company. When 
about to be sent to the same market, an older sister went to 
the shambles, to plead with the wretch who owned them, for 
the love of God, to spare his victims. He bantered her, 
telling what fine dresses and fine furniture they would have. 
' Yes,' she said, ' tjiat may do very well in this life, but 
what will become of them in the next ? ' They too were 
eent to New Orleans; but were afterwards redeemed, at an 
enormous ransom, and brought back." Is it not plain, from 
this, that the histories of Emmeline and Cassy may have 
many counterparts 1 

Justice, too, obliges the author to state that the fairness 
of mind and generosity attributed to St. Clare are not 
without a parallel, as the following anecdote will show. 


A few years since, a young southern gentleman was in 
Cincinnati, with a favorite servant, who had been his personal 
attendant from a boy. The young man took advantage 
of this opportunity to secure his own freedom, and fled to 
the protection of a Quaker, who was quite noted in affairs of 
this kind. The owner was exceedingly indignant. He had 
always treated the slave with such indulgence, and his con- 
fidence in his affection was such, that he believed he must 
have been practised upon to induce him to revolt from him. 
He visited the Quaker, in high anger ; but, being possessed of 
uncommon candor and fairness, was soon quieted by his 
arguments and representations. It was a side of the subject 
which he never had heard, — never had thought on ; and he 
immediately told the Quaker that, if his slave would, to his 
own face, say that it was his desire to be free, he would 
liberate him. An interview was forthwith procured, and 
Nathan was asked by his young master whether he had ever 
had any reason to complain of his treatment, in any respect. 

"No, Mas'r," said Nathan; "you've always been good 
to me." 

11 Well, then, why do you want to leave me 1 " 

"Mas'r may die, and then who get me? — I 'd rather be 
a free man." 

After some deliberation, the young master replied, " Na- 
than, in your place, I think I should feel very much so, 
myself. You are free." 

He immediately made him out free papers; deposited a 
sum of money in the hands of the Quaker, to be judiciously 
used in assisting him to start in life, and left a very sensible 
and kind letter of advice to the young man. That letter was 
for some time in the writer's hands. 

The author hopes she has done justice to that nobility, 

vol. ii. 27 

314 OHCLl TOM'S CABIN: 01 

and humanity, which in many eases characterize 
individ" the South. Such instances save us from i 

despair of our kind. But. she asks any person, who knows 
the world, are such characters common, anywhere \ 

For many years of her life ithor avoided all reading 

upon or allusion to the suhject of slavery, consider: 
too painful to be inquired into, and one which advan 
light and civilization would certainly live down. But. since 
the le e - : : jf 1850 when she heard, with perfect 

surprise and consternation. Oh and humane people 

•.ally recommending the remanding escaped fugitives into 
. as a duty binding on good citizens. — when she 
heard, on all hands, from kind, compassionate and estimable 
people, in the free s: atefl of the Xorth. deliberations and 
:o what Christian duty could be on this head, — 
she could only think. These men and Christians cannot know 
what slavery is : if they did. such a question could never be 
open for discussion. And from thi3 arose a desire to exhibit 
it in a living dramatic reality. She has endeavored to 
show it fairly, in its best and its worst phases. In its best 
aspect, she has. perhaps, been successful ; but, oh ! who shall 
say what yet remains untold in- that valley and shadow of 
death, that lies the other 

1 c y ju, generous, noble-minded men and women, of the 
South, — you, whose virtue, and magnanimity, and purity of 
character, are the greater for the severer trial it has encoun- 
tered. — to you is her appeaL Have you not, in your own 
secret souls, in your own private conversings. felt that there 
are woes and evils, in this accursed system, far beyond what 
are here shadowed, or can be shadowed ?- Can it be other- 
wise 1 Is man ever a creature to be trusted with wholly 
irresponsible power) And does not the slave system, by 


denying the slave all legal right of testimony, make every indi- 
vidual owner an irresponsible despot ? Can anj'body fail to 
make the inference what the practical result will be ? If there 
is, as we ndmit, a public sentiment among you, men of honor, 
justice and humanity, is there not also another kind of public 
sentiment among the ruffian, the brutal and debased ? And 
cannot the ruffian, the brutal, the debased, by slave law, own 
just as many slaves as the best and purest ? Are the honor- 
able, the just, the high-minded and compassionate, the major- 
ity anywhere in this world ? 

The slave-trade is now, by American law, considered as 
piracy. But a slave-trade, as systematic as ever was carried 
on on the coast of Africa, is an inevitable attendant and result 
of American slavery. And its heart-break and its horrors, 
can they be told ? 

The writer has given only a faint shadow, a dim picture, 
of the anguish and despair that are, at this very moment, 
riving thousands of hearts, shattering thousands of families, 
and driving a helpless and sensitive race to frenzy and despair. 
There are those living who know the mothers whom this 
accursed traffic has driven to the murder of their children ; 
and themselves seeking in death a shelter from woes more 
dreaded than death. Nothing of tragedy can be written, can 
be spoken, can be conceived, that equals the frightful reality 
of scenes daily and hourly acting on our shores, beneath the 
shadow of American law, and the shadow of the cross of 

And now, men and women of America, is this a thing to 
be trifled with, apologized for, and passed over in silence'? 
Farmers of Massachusetts, of New Hampshire, of Vermont, 
of Connecticut, who read this book by the blaze of your 
winter-evening fire, — strong-hearted, generous sailors and 


ship-owners of Maine, — is this a thing for you to countenance 
and encourage? Brave and generous men of New York, farm- 
ers of rich and joyous Ohio, and ye of the wide prairie states, 
— answer, is chis a thing for you to protect and countenance 1 
And you, mothers of America, — you, who have learned, by 
the cradles of your own children, to love and feel for all man- 
kind, — by the sacred love you bear your child; by your joy 
in his beautiful, spotless infancy; by the motherly pity and 
tenderness with which you guide his growing years ; by the 
anxieties of his education ; by the prayers you breathe for his 
soul's eternal good ; — I beseech you, pity the mother who has 
all your affections, and not one legal right to protect, guide, 
or educate, the child of her bosom ! By the sick hour of your 
child ; by those dying eyes, which you can never forget ; by 
those last cries, that wrung your heart when you could neither 
help nor save ; by the desolation of that empty cradle, that 
silent nursery, — I beseech you, pity those mothers that are 
constantly made childless by the American slave-trade ! And 
say, mothers of America, is this a thing to be defended, sym- 
pathized with, passed over in silence ? 

Do you say that the people of the free states have nothing 
to do with it, and can do nothing ? Would to God this were 
true ! But it is not true. The people of the free states have 
defended, encouraged, and participated ; and are more guilty 
for it, before God, than the South, in that they have not the 
apology of education or custom. * 

If the mothers of the free states had all felt as they should, 
in times past, the sons of the free states would not have been 
the holders, and, proverbially, the hardest masters of slaves ; 
the sons of the free states would not have connived at the ex- 
tension of slavery, in our national body ; the sons of the free 
states would not, as they do, trade the souls and bodies of men 


as an equivalent to money, in their mercantile dealings. There 
are multitudes of slaves temporarily owned, and sold again, by 
merchants in northern cities ; and shall the whole guilt or 
obloquy of slavery fall only on the South ? 

Northern men, northern mothers, northern Christians, have 
something more to do than denounce their brethren at the 
South ; they have to look to the evil among themselves. 

But, what can any individual do 7 Of that, every indi- 
vidual can judge. There is one thing that every individual 
can do, — they can see to it that they feel right. An atmos- 
phere of sympathetic influence encircles every human being j 
and the man or woman who feels strongly, healthily and 
justly, on the great interests of humanity, is a constant bene- 
factor to the human race. See, then, to your sympathies il 
this matter ! Are they in harmony with the sympathies oi 
Christ ? or are they swayed and perverted by the sophistries 
of worldly policy ? 

Christian men and women of the North ! still further, — 
you have another power ; you can pray ! Do you believe in 
prayer? or has it become an indistinct apostolic tradition? 
You pray for the heathen abroad ; pray also for the heathen at 
home. And pray for those distressed Christians whose whole 
chance of religious improvement is an accident of trade and 
sale ; from whom any adherence to the morals of Christianity 
is, in many cases, an impossibility, unless they have given 
them, from above, the courage and grace of martyrdom. 

But, still more. On the shores of our free states are 
emerging the poor, shattered, broken remnants of families, — 
men and women, escaped, by miraculous providences, from the 
surges of slavery, — feeble in knowledge, and, in many cases, 
infirm in moral constitution, from a system which confounds 
and confuses every principle of Christianity and morality 

vol. ii. 27* 


They come to seek a refuge among you ; they come to seek 
education, knowledge, Christianity. 

What do you owe to these poor unfortunates, oh Christians ? 
Does not every American Christian owe to the African race 
some effort at reparation for the wrongs that the American 
nation has brought upon them ? Shall the doors of churches 
and school-houses be shut upon them ? Shall states arise and 
shake them out ? Shall the church of Christ hear in silence 
the taunt that is thrown at them, and shrink away from the 
helpless hand that they stretch out; and, by her silence- 
encourage the cruelty that would chase them from our bor- 
ders ? If it must be so, it will be a mournful spectacle. If it 
must be so, the country will have reason to tremble, when it 
remembers that the fate of nations is in the hands of One who 
is very pitiful, and of tender compassion. 

Do you say, " We don't want them here; let them go to 

That the providence of God has provided a refuge in Africa, 
is, indeed, a great and noticeable fact ; but that is no reason 
why the church of Christ should throw off that responsibility 
to this outcast race which her profession demands of her. 

To fill up Liberia with an ignorant, inexperienced, half-bar- 
barized race, just escaped from the chains of slavery, would be 
only to prolong, for ages, the period of struggle and conflict 
which attends the inception of new enterprises. Let the church 
of the north receive these poor sufferers in the spirit of Christ ; 
receive them to the educating advantages of Christian repub- 
lican society and schools, until they have attained to somewhat 
of a moral and intellectual maturity, and then assist them in 
their passage to those shores, where they may put in practice 
the lessons they have learned in America. 

There is a body of men at the north, comparatively small, 


who have been doing this ; and, as the result, this country ha? 
already seen examples of men, formerly slaves, who have rapidly 
acquired property, reputation, and education. Talent has been 
developed, which, considering the circumstances, is certainly 
remarkable ; and, for moral traits of honesty, kindness, tender- 
ness of feeling, — for heroic efforts and self-denials, endured 
for the ransom of brethren and friends yet in slavery, — they 
have been remarkable to a degree that, considering the influ- 
ence under which they were born, is surprising. 

The writer has lived, for many years, on the frontier-line 
of slave states, and has had great opportunities of observation 
among those who formerly were slaves. They have been in 
her family as servants ; and, in default of any other school to 
receive them, she has, in many cases, had them instructed in 
a family school, with her own children. She has also the tes- 
timony of missionaries, among the fugitives in Canada, in 
coincidence with her own experience ; and her deductions, with 
regard to the capabilities of the race, are encouraging in the 
highest degree. 

The first desire of the emancipated slave, generally, is for 
education. There is nothing that they are not willing to 
give or do to have their children instructed ; and, so far as the 
writer has observed herself, or taken the testimony of teachers 
among them, they are remarkably intelligent and quick to 
learn. The results of schools, founded for them by benevo- 
lent individuals in Cincinnati, fully establish this. 

The author gives the following statement of facts, on the 
authority of Professor C. E. Stowe, then of Lane Seminary, 
Ohio, with regard to emancipated slaves, now resident in Cin- 
cinnati ; given to show the capability of the race, even without 
any very particular assistance or encouragement. 


The initial letters alone are given. They are all residents 
of Cincinnati. 

"B . Furniture maker; twenty years in the city; 

worth ten thousand dollars, all his own earnings ; a Baptist. 

" C . Full black; stolen from Africa; sold in New 

Orleans ; been free fifteen years ; paid for himself six hun- 
dred dollars ; a farmer ; owns several farms in Indiana ; Pres- 
byterian ; probably worth fifteen or twenty thousand dollars, 
all earned by himself. 

" K . Full black ; dealer in real estate ; worth thirty 

thousand dollars ; about forty years old ; free six years ; paid 
eighteen hundred dollars for his family ; member of the Bap- 
tist church ; received a legacy from his master, which he has 
taken good care of, and increased. 

' ' G . Full black ; coal dealer ; about thirty years 

old ; worth eighteen thousand dollars ; paid for himself twice, 
being once defrauded fco the amount of sixteen hundred dol- 
lars ; made all his money by his own efforts — much of it 
while a slave, hiring his time of his master, and doing busi- 
ness for himself ; a fine, gentlemanly fellow. 

«f W . Three-fourths black ; barber and waiter ; from 

Kentucky : nineteen years free ; paid for self and family over 
three thousand dollars ; worth twenty thousand dollars, all his 
own earnings ; deacon in the Baptist church. 

" GL D . Three-fourths black; white-washer; from 

Kentucky ; nine years free ; paid fifteen hundred dollars for 
self and family ; recently died, aged sixty ; worth six thousand 

Professor Stowe says, "With all these, except G , I 

have been, for some years, personally acquainted, and make 
my statements from my own knowledge." 

The writer well remembers an aged colored woman, who 


was employ ed as a washerwoman in her father's family. The 
daughter of this woman married a slave. She was a remark- 
ably active and capable young woman, and, by her industry 
and thrift, and the most persevering self-denial, raised nine 
hundred dollars for her husband's freedom, which she paid, as 
she raised it, into the hands of his master. She yet wanted a 
hundred dollars of the price, when he died. She never recov- 
ered any of the money. 

These are but few facts, among multitudes which might be 
adduced, to show the self-denial, energy, patience, and hon- 
esty, which the slave has exhibited in a state of freedom. 

And let it be remembered that these individuals have thus 
bravely succeeded in conquering for themselves comparative 
wealth and social position, in the face of every disadvantage 
and discouragement. The colored man, by the law of Ohio, 
cannot be a voter, and, till within a few years, was even 
denied the right of testimony in legal suits with the white. 
Nor are these instances confined to the State of Ohio. In 
all states of the Union we see men, but yesterday burst from 
the shackles of slavery, who, by a self-educating force, which 
cannot be too much admired, have risen to highly respectable 
stations in society. Pennington, among clergymen, Douglas 
and Ward, among editors, are well known instances. 

If this persecuted race, with every discouragement and 
disadvantage, have done thus much, how much more they 
might do, if the Christian church would act towards them in 
the spirit of her Lord ! 

This is an age of the world when nations are trembling 
and convulsed. A mighty influence is abroad, surging and 
heaving the world, as with an earthquake. And is America 
safe? Every nation that carries in its bosom great and unre- 
dressed injustice has in it the elements of this last convulsion 


For what is this mighty influence thus rousing in all 
nations and languages those groanings that cannot be uttered, 
for man's freedom and equality ? 

0, Church of Christ, read the signs of the times ! Is not 
this power the spirit of Him whose kingdom is yet to come, 
and whose will to be done on earth as it is in heaven 1 

But who may abide the day of his appearing? " for that day 
shall burn as an oven : and he shall appear as a swift witness 
against those that oppress the hireling in his wages, the 
widow and the fatherless, and that turn aside the stranger 
in his right: and he shall break in pieces the oppressor." 

Are not these dread words for a nation bearing in her 
bosom so mighty an injustice 1 Christians ! every time that 
you pray that the kingdom of Christ may come, can you for- 
get that prophecy associates, in dread fellowship, the day of 
vengeance with the year of his redeemed 1 

A day of grace is yet held out to us. Both North and 
South have been guilty before God ; and the Christian 
church has a heavy account to answer. Not by combining 
together, to protect injustice and cruelty, and making a 
common capital of sin, is this Union to be saved, — but by 
repentance, justice and mercy ; for, not surer is the eternal 
law by which the millstone sinks in the ocean, than that 
stronger law, by which injustice and cruelty shall bring on 
nations the wrath of Almighty God ! 

ffaltuihl* 3knb t 



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44 (( (4 44 44 

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Breck's Book of Flowers. 

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Garden, in which is also described all the various Trees, Shrubs, and 
Plants, for ornamental purposes. By Joseph Breck, Seedsman and 
^Florist. Price 75 cents. 

Treatise on the Construction, Heating and Ventilation of 

Hot Houses. 

By R. B. Leuchars. 12mo., cloth, $1. 

The only work on this subject ever published in America. It is highly 
recommended by Prof. Silliman, and other scientific gentlemen. 

The American Fowl Breeder. 

Each 25 cts. Eight thousand copies have been sold of this work. 


Leavitt's First Reader. 

Half bound, stiff covers, 18mo., 72 pages, elegantly illustrated, each 10 o. 

Leavitt's Second Reader, or Easy Lessons. 

Half bound, 18mo., 180 pages, each 20cts. 

Leavitt's Third Reader. 

12mo., 240 pages, half morocco, each 38 cts. 

Leavitt's Fourth Reader. 

12nio., 312 pages, full sheep, each 50 cents. 

In the preparation of these books, the author has made it his leading 
object, never lost sight of, to give children such lessons as they will read 
with interest and pleasure; lessons which, both by their subjects and their 
style, are especially adapted to elocutionary purposes ; lessons selected not 
so much with reference to their didactic use, for moral or scientific 
instruction, as for their fitness for children to learn to read. It is believed 
that there is no series of reading books in the market which are so well cal 
culated, by their structure and variety, to make children read with life 
and spirit, and to lead them naturally into the proper intonation and 
inflections of the voice in reading. 

"We doubt whether there is another compilation so well adapted for the pur^ 
poses intended as Mr. Leavitt's series of Readers. — New York Evangelist. 

From Hon. "Wm. B. Calhoun, late Secretary of State of Massachusetts. 

I cannot but regard Mr. Leavitt's Reading Books as better adapted to the 
capacities of youth, and better calculated to make good readers, than any series 
with which I am acquainted. 

From Rev. Dr. Perry, Bradford. 
Leavitt's Readers need no commendation to those acquainted with the works. 

Robinson's American Arithmetic. 

12mo., 288 pages, morocco back and cloth sides. Price, single, 50 cts. 
per dozen, $4.50. 

At a meeting of the School Committee of the city of Boston, March 8, 1848, 
Ordered, that the report of the Committee on Books be amended, by placing 
Robinson's Arithmetic in place of the North American Arithmetic, Part Third. 

Attest, S. F. M'Cleary, Secretary. 

' • 

Robinson's Primary School Arithmetic. 

Each 12£ cts. 

Robinson's Key to American Arithmetic. 

Each 50 cts. 
From S. W. Bates, Esq., Adams School, Boston. 
I think Robinson's Arithmetic an excellent and highly practical work. 

From Thomas Sherwin, Esq., English High School, Boston. 
It gives me pleasm© to recommend Mr. Robinson's Arithmetic to th» 
interested in education. 


The Literary Eeader, for Academies and High Schools. 

By Miss A. Hall, author of the " Manual of Morals." 12mo., 480 pages, 
full sheep, 62 cts. 

We are most favorably impressed with the plan and execution of Miss Hall's 
Literary Reader. — Evening Traveller, Boston. 

We like this new reading book, and most cordially recommend it. — Hartford 

Manual of Morals, by Miss A. Hall. 

Common School Edition, 212 pages, each 20 cts. The same, best edi- 
tion, morocco back and cloth sides, 38 cts. 

It will be an auspicious day to the cause of common school education, through- 
out the land, when a book like this shall become a classical study, and its 
principles shall be taught and understood with half the thoroughness applied to 
some studies of far inferior value. — Congregationalist, Boston. 

This book — the Manual of Morals — will excite the sympathies, as well as 
inform the intellect ; which will make children love virtue, as well as under- 
stand what it is, and teach them their duties to God, themselves, and others. — 
Religious Spectator. 

Wells' School Grammar. 

38 cts. 

Wells' Elementary Grammar. 

This work is strictly Elementary. Price 17 cts. 150,000 copies of this 
work have been published. 


The Grammar has received an official recommendation from the Convention of 
School Committees for the State of Rhode Island, held at Provide'nce, September, 

At the Convention of County Superintendents, held at Montpelier, Vt., Oct. 
14th, 1846, Wells' School Grammar was recommended, as best adapted to the 
use of the common schools of the state. 

Ira Mayhew, Esq., Superintendent of Public Instruction for the State of 
Michigan, in his last Report to the Legislature of that state, recommended 
Wells' School Grammar, as best adapted to meet the wants of public schools. 

The Board of Education for the State of Maine, at a meeting held in October, 
1847, recommended Wells' Grammar, to the schools of the state, as the best 
work of the kind now before the public. 

At a meeting of the School Committee of the city of Boston, March 8, 1848, 
an order passed substituting Wells' Grammar in place of Weld's Grammar. 

Attest, S. E. M 'Clear y, Secretary. 

From Prof. C. D. Cleveland, Pnn. of a Select School for Young Ladies, PhiVa. 

Gentlemen : You ask my opinion of Wells' Grammar. I answer,. I like it 
much, and have introduced it into my school, in preference to any other English 
Grammar with which I am acquainted. 

It oombines such happy qualities as to interest all my scholars. The younger 


classes are pleased with it for its clearness and simplicity ; and the older, for its 
numerous citations of authorities. 

I am not surprised at the great success it has met with ; it deserves it. 

From Rev. Emerson Davis, D. D., Westfield, Mass. 

I can say, in all honesty, that your work is, all things considered, the best 
School Grammar before the public. 

From G. Field, Esq., Principal of Belfast Academy, Maine. 

I use, and shall continue to use, Wells' Grammar, in preference to any other 

Jewett's New England Writing Books. 

Per Gross, $6. 

Towndrow's Writing Books. 

In seven parts, with the copies in the books. Same, without copies. 

This is the best system of penmanship now in use. The books are made 
of superfine cap paper, and the copies are engraved in the most elegant 

About 300,000 copies of this valuable system of penmanship have been 

Bliss' Analysis of Geography. 

New Revised Edition, quarto. Price 62 cents. 

Bliss' Geography of New England. 

Each 25 cents. 

Bliss' Outline Map of New England. 

Each $1. The same, varnished, $1,25. 

Bliss' Series of Outline Maps. 

For Academies and Common Schools, on thick paper, and elegantly col- 
ored, per set, $3. 

The same, backed with cloth, elegantly colored, per set, $5. 

The same, mounted on rollers, elegantly colored, and backed with cloth, 

The same, varnished, $7. 

Bliss' Outline Globe. 

A new and beautiful twelve-inch globe, which should be rn every school- 
room. $8. 

Bliss' Topics to be used with Outline Maps. 

Price per dozen, $1. 

From N. Tillinghast, Esq., Principal of the State Normal School, at Bridgewater. 

I am very much pleased with the " Outline Maps ;" their size and execution 
make them fill a place that no other similar maps that I have seen do fill. I 
shall put them, in connection with the " Analysis of Geography," in use in my 
Normal and Experimental School, and expect to reap advantage from them. 


jjM i Rev. Emerson Davis, D. D., for many years Principal of the Westfield 
Academy, and late Principal of the Normal School located there. 

y most cheerfully recommend it [the geography] to the public, as combining 
moie excellences than any other for the use of schools. Its chief excellence is 
its classification of subjects, by which the attention of the scholar is directed to 
one thing at a time. 

From David S. Rowe, Esq., Principal of the State Normal School, at Westfield. 
A trial has been given it [the geography], and our conclusion is that it is a 
capital book. The lady who has taught the class which has used it informs me 
that all her pupils are delighted with it, and she regards it as decidedly the 
best geography with which she is acquainted. The " Outline Maps " are a 
beautiful set of maps, very neatly executed, and in connection with the " Analy- 
sis of Geography," by Mr. Bliss, furnish the best and most attractive aids to 
the study of geography with which I am acquainted. 

Hutting's Initiatory Drawing Cards. 

In four parts, eighteen cards in each ; presenting carefully drawn ex- 
amples, accompanied by directions illustrating the first principles of draw- 
ing. For the use of schools and families. By B. F. Nutting. Per dozen 
packs, $2.25. 

Nutting's Progressive Drawing Cards. 

In four parts, nine large-sized and elegant carcls in a pack. Intended 
for more advanced pupils, and designed to follow the initiatory series. 
Per dozen packs, $4. 

Hall's Lectures to Teachers. 

New and Revised Edition. By S. R. Hall. Price 25 cents. 

National Accountant. 

A complete system of Book-Keeping, by Single and Double Entry. By 
Jacob Batchelder. Price 50 cents. 

The Scholar's Record Book. 
By Rev. G. B. Perry, D. D Each 20 cents.